Calling on favors
by Takhira
Summary: Frollo gets an apprentice. Clopin gets a girl. Esmeralda gets an idea. The gypsies get mad. Jailarity ensues.
1. Poor Unfortunate souls

The Feast of Fools had been, to Claude Frollo, exactly that: foolish. Foolish people, foolish stunts, foolish food, foolish everything.

Frollo had thought that at least his adopted son was hidden safe away in the bell tower where no disasters could be started. This was untrue, but Quasimodo had the decency and intelligence to sneak out while the feast was distracted with itself and stayed where convenient alleys or other escape options were close.

Nothing actually happened during the festival and so, in essence, nothing happened. During the crowning of the King of Fools, Frollo managed to slip away without notice. If Clopin didn't find any good candidates, he tried to crown Frollo. So far, the amount of body parts Frollo had broken immediately afterwards wasn't swaying him in the least.

For a second he thought he saw someone that reminded him of Quasimodo, but screams and colors made him turn his head and when he turned back, the person was gone. It was either the stress or the alcohol fumes. More and more he was remembering why he hated this day.

He swore he'd be glad when the day was over.

…………….

No one had tried to pickpocket him this time, no drunks had found him to be a convenient spot to throw up on, and he'd managed to avoid women who wanted money for belching as they took their clothes off.

Half the day was gone and so far the Feast of Fools seemed tolerable. Finally, the sound of what the day was truly about was shouted across the street: 'Stop thief!'

Claude Frollo was not near his horse, which he regretted as he took off in the direction of the shouting. He knocked away every person who was unfortunate not to get out of his way fast enough. The gypsies never admitted to anything that changed his job from anything more than a genocidal murderer; they would remember him crashing over two tables and not lose any speed, not that he was racing to the aid of a woman he'd been struck three times for not giving up her purse and expensive goods.

Frollo left the woman as she picked herself up. He could help her up after he'd gotten her things back. If he felt like it.

Chasing after the thief brought him to a cooper's workshop. Wooden slats in various stages of being grouped up into circles were set aside. Hoops of metal leaned against the walls of the workshop.

Claude wandered inside cautiously, seeing no one. He pulled out his dagger and took two more tentative steps. He knew how this trick worked. It wasn't a very smart trick, but one still had to know how to handle it.

The door to the workshop slammed shut and Claude spun around and aimed his dagger and slammed it down squarely at his foe. However, this version of the trick was new. He jumped back as he released the dagger, trying to avoid an attack towards his chest. The attack, however, wasn't aimed at his chest as usual. It was aimed at his legs.

Thankfully he'd backed away or the blow would have torn his leg away. Still, the hammer strike against his knee smashed open his leg and sent his entire leg into a bloody searing hell of pain.

His attacker staggered, Claude's blade buried deep in his shoulder, taking away most of the use of that arm.

Claude was on the ground, trying to tear his robes from his injured leg, but the blood was running thick and sticky. He gave up on trying to untangle himself as his attacker tried to hit him again with the odd-angled hammer. He shoved himself backwards on his hands and his good leg. The man pulled back for another swing. Claude grabbed one of the heavy hoops from a wall, sending the other hoops and several slats of wood falling toward his attacker. In consequence, the hammer swing was not thrown far enough and only managed to knock his hat off.

Claude took the hoop in both hands and swung it recklessly, letting loose as he began to lose his balance and fall backwards. The hoop smashed into his attacker's face, the hammer drawn back for another blow and was nowhere to be used as defense.

Claude lay on the dirt floor and winced as he willed the pain in his knee to subside enough for him to know if he had hit his head too hard falling backwards. From behind his closed eyelids, he noticed the lighting in the workshop change.

His eyes flew open, fearing his attacker had survived and his attempt to defend himself had done nothing. Instead, Claude was blinking as the bright sunlight hurt his eyes and a dark silhouette started shoving something heavy and groaning away from the door in order to let himself and more bright sunlight in.

Claude shoved himself back to an upright position after figuring that his head was fine, just throbbing slightly. Pulling his good knee close, he shuffled the skirt of his robe into a ball and pressed it against his leg.

Hissing inwardly, he wasn't sure if the pain increased or merely changed slightly and it was now the colder, stinging pain that he hated.

He bowed his head and braved a look at his ruined knee. The wound wasn't deep, but it was gushing a large amount of blood. The bone of the kneecap had been shoved aside and though a few ligaments had been twisted, nothing had been separated.

Claude heard someone make a noise of disgust from the door. "Looks bad sir," said the voice of his newly appointed captain.

Claude put the ball of his robe skirt back to the wound, pressing hard. "Well, don't gawk, help me up and have that man arrested. And return what he stole to the woman.

"What are you doing?" Claude yelled as he was hefted up by arm around his torso, lifting him into the air. "I said help me up, not carry me!"

He was carried out into the sunlight, but thankfully not very far. Phoebus set the minister on his destrier and set the hat on the minister. Angrily, Frollo adjusted his hat, which Phoebus had put on him backwards, and adjusted his side-saddle position on the horse as Phoebus returned the stolen property to the woman.

"Oh, thank you!" the woman cried, hugging Phoebus hard, despite her bruises.

"Yes, it was nothing," Claude said, flatly. He signaled for the horse to move and it trotted off towards the hospice.

…………..

The hospice was non-descript and around the back of the cathedral. In a sense, the doctor was very similar in a way. Non-descript, close to the church, but not really there. Jacques, the doctor of that particular hospice, was an unfortunate son of a rather famous midwife. By appearance, it was hard to place his age at all, for he could be well-aged and old or someone young who never got enough sleep for the last year. He looked slightly small and very unimportant compared to most men, and like furniture next to everyone else. His dark hair was flat and dull, his face was just plain dull, and he looked so boring, no one thought twice at seeing blood all over his long white tunic or wide, dark shirt sleeves, even if they didn't know his profession.

Jacques had the unfortunate social position as a doctor with no authority and taking care of patients not only panicking, but often stupid as well, the unfortunate look that ranged from far-less-expressive-than-people-will-listen-to to so-boring-people-think-he-just-wandered-in-despite-having-just-cut-your-leg-off-with-a-saw, and the fact that no one not already belonging to one of the groups never figured that the doctor's most frequent visitors would be from the law or the clergy, most people tended to assume not only was the only way to communicate with him to scream, but to repeat the same sentence over and over. Because of this mixture of sad circumstances, Jacques kept a congenial manner around people until they proved—to his mind—that they were too stupid to dress themselves properly on the first try and then he treated them like a toddler one had to hold down with one's foot just to wash their face and then insult them until they got the subtle hint that he wanted them to leave and never come back.

"Jacques?" Claude called out, using the wall of the hospice and his good leg to drag himself inside. The door had been left open and a thick blanket tacked over the doorway to keep the heat from escaping, but aid the fools in traffic this day. Frollo was one of the few people who not only thought Jacque's hearing was not hindered by the fact that he easily blended into the background, but also respected the man, not just for being smarter than most soldiers, but as someone who could not only save his life, but also as someone skilled at many kinds of sharp objects.

"For the last time, it's not my responsibility if you can't pace yourselves or hold your liquor, now go throw up somewhere—Oh, Sweet Lord!" The doctor yelled, entering from the room where he cleaned his equipment and kept books.

Jacques was a lot more knowledgeable about dignity than Phoebus. He slid his hands under Claude's shoulders for the injured man to lean on and led him to one of the beds. Claude centered himself on the bed and Jacques ran to get the proper supplies.

Jacques was the closest thing Claude had to a friend. Unlike most people in his job, Claude literally threw himself into every aspect of his job, and often it threw something back at him. Jacques swore that if a month went by and Claude didn't show up—either for himself or dragging someone else in—he was probably dead.

Jacques had been a priest in the years Claude had served as a scholar and an officer. Jacques' position, however, became threatened as he began to study anatomy books alongside his holy ones. The man eventually abandoned the church, exchanging his cassock for a beaked mask of a doctor. Claude soon became a regular patient, and thought the change in occupation was an honorable one, a good way to still serve God. The two exchanged stories of someone-somewhere's incompetence to pass the time and ignore the pain or focus on stitching or wrapping.

Jacques returned with his hands full of supplies and immediately set to work. Claude winced as Jacques tore his expensive hose apart. Usually, Claude detested people touching him even through the fabric of his clothes, and would no doubt be made even more uncomfortable by someone with certain tastes like Jacques, but he didn't care as Jacques tossed the skirt to thigh-level and started undoing his chausses while still cleaning the wound. There was something about being in the hands of a competent doctor that let Claude ignore something that would normally rip his dignity to shreds.

Only when the blanket was lifted again and Captain Phoebus strode into the hospice did Claude start feeling like he had a very unwelcome guest intruding on private matters.

"Captain Phoebus," Claude groaned. His bare leg suddenly felt cold. "I do hope you know I don't pay you to flirt."

"I will," Jacques said, casting a glance at the young man, winking, and then going back to cleaning the last bit of blood and dirt from Claude's leg. Claude and Jacques had a severe clash about ethics in the eyes of the lord concerning what Jacques' eyes liked to wander over and what they didn't. Eventually they came to the resolution of what went on in Jacques' head was between him and the lord and just so long as he never committed a lewd act with a man, Claude didn't have to have him killed, and thus, for now, Jacque's soul was saved. The man did believe that hell must have some nice people who were just like him to hook up with, but he wasn't in a rush to get there.

"Er…" Phoebus managed, wondering if he should keep an eye on Jacques. "Sir, I was asking around on your behalf—"

"For future reference, never do anything on my behalf," Claude said, his fingers twitching over the sides of the bed. The pain was excruciating and Claude wanted something to occupy his mind, or at least his hands that ached to rub at the wound.

This time Jacques didn't say a smart comment, or even wink at Phoebus. Phoebus figured he either didn't like people messing with Frollo, or he didn't want anyone doing anything on his behalf either. The man just drew up a long length of thread and started it through a small needle.

"Sir, I just thought I should alert your closest kin so they could help out or—"

"I need to hire someone more articulate," Claude groaned.

"That's the least of your problems," Jacques said. "The last thing any man needs is someone asking about his mother."

"Phoebus, come here, I can't move," Claude said, gesturing with a finger for the man to come closer.

Phoebus stepped closer, deliberately stepping away from Jacques.

Claude reached up and pulled Phoebus down by his cloak, let go and smacked the back of the blonde's head before he could get back up. "Thank you, I 'm feeling a bit better now."

"Sir, you really haven't considered what you'd do in a situation like this?"

"Well, obviously I have, given that I got here by myself," Claude snapped. "My plan is to go home, hope the whole city doesn't fall apart thanks to you, and await anything that needs my immediate attention while I get better. I just hope I'll be able to ride after this." The last part was directed to Jacques, who was nearly finished with his tiny, precise stitches.

Suddenly Phoebus felt a lot more uncomfortable than he did before, and he already felt very unsafe being in a room with these two men. In the infirmary for the war, men were screaming, in tears, wailing in inhumanly loud voices, or numb to most everything due to the pain. Phoebus had gotten used to being called 'Mama' or by the name of someone's girl or brother back home. Given Frollo's lucidity, he wasn't on any medicine to take the pain away, merely gritting his teeth as the needle went through his torn skin and flexing his hands like a pawing cat. Phoebus thought that if this man could sit still through such an injury and debate against any form of help short of the doctor's, it wasn't a good sign.

"Phoebus, I was hit in the knee, not my head," Claude said. "I am not so incapacitated that I cannot care for myself anymore. I do not need my mother, I do not need a nurse, and I certainly do not need you trying to convince me otherwise."

"You're a pretty boy, but if you don't stop talking, I'll have to make you," Jacques said. "I'm doing very delicate work here and I don't need you trying to make either of us laugh or try to get up and strangle you." Jacques finished off the stitches in Claude's knee and started to soak the bandages in sweet-smelling water.

"Sir, that's not really what I've been trying to talk to you about," Phoebus tried to defend himself with.

"Captain, I'm starting to black out due to blood loss. Can we continue this mess of a conversation later?" Claude asked wearily. "And don't say anything to coddle me."

Phoebus looked at Jacques. "Well, at least he got here when you were in," Phoebus said.

"Nonsense!" Jacques muttered, taking the bandages out. "I can't be out there on a day like this. Besides, they bribe me with free cake to stay inside."

That was the last coherent thing Claude heard for a while.

Darkness and flashes of color washed over him, along with different shades of terrible pain and eerie numbness, all in erratic patterns like tides fighting for dominance.

He heard mumbling, voices added and subtracted to a conversation he couldn't make out. He heard a few words, but nothing made sense and he didn't want them to. People shuffled around him and he hoped everyone was making preparations to just leave him alone for a while.

After a while, everything but the pain subsided. Claude blinked and cringed at a throbbing pain in his head.

Wiping sweat from his face, Claude took in his environment. Blankets had been tacked around his bed to keep people out. The blankets were donations, most of them made by women whose husbands had been saved by Jacques' skills, even though most of the men were dead now from something that not even Jacques could help except by offering comfort from his experience as a priest. Claude wondered why all the charity given to Jacques wound up with silly pictures of baby animals all over them.

Beside Claude was a small stand, upon which sat a pitcher of water and a small portion of the free cake Jacques had received today. Between the stand and the bed, two crutches had been leaned against the wall. Claude pulled himself up to a sitting position on the bed and helped himself to some of the water. He and Jacques said that it was Jacques' remedy for anything other than drowning. He'd never live it down if he ate the cake Jacques offered.

Claude's movements were slow and difficult due to his leg, which had been bandaged and re-bandaged during his bout of unconsciousness. A wooden brace had been tied tightly around his knee.

Claude managed to maneuver the crutches from the wall and tested them. At first he was unsteady, but he soon won the battle with gravity and managed to learn how to take small steps with their help.

He realized there was a sound he'd gotten used to coming from beyond the blankets. Listening closely, he found it to be a quiet discussion between three people: Jacques, Phoebus, and the archdeacon. Not thinking this could ever amount to anything good for him, he leaned on one of the crutches; he shoved the ugly blankets aside to investigate

"Oh, you're up," the archdeacon said to Claude, ending whatever conversation the three were having, then and there.

"And you smell horrible," Claude replied, trying to wave the smell of alcoholic vomit from his nose.

"I told him not to try to help the man," Jacques said. A month into his profession, Jacques wouldn't let any drunk in his hospice until after he was sure they'd emptied the contents of their stomachs. The archdeacon still had yet to learn that lesson.

"I'm afraid my newly appointed captain got himself some stupid idea and that he's trying to convince you of it," Claude said. "Let me guess: I'm too late."

The archdeacon sighed. "You really are one to fight ideas before you've even heard them."

"I am two years younger than him," Claude yelled, leaning heavily on a crutch to point at Jacques, who had backed away from the conversation, but stood where he could happily keep an eye on Phoebus. "and I am seventeen years younger than you!" This time Claude pointed at the archdeacon. "I do not need someone to care for me!" Claude angrily adjusted his hat as the archdeacon squirmed, uncomfortable with anyone, especially someone he disliked, knowing how old he was.

"With all due respect sir," Phoebus interjected. He ignored Jacques shaking his head at having opened his mouth. "That isn't what I was suggesting in the first place."

"Then what exactly were you babbling about?" Claude said, determined to run the suggestion into the ground faster than before.

"Sir, I was honestly wondering why you've never considered an apprentice before."

At first, Claude was honestly taken aback. The archdeacon hoped that he could win over the minister this time; either human contact would soften the man's mood somewhat or it would be a rather deserved prank.

"I don't want one," Claude answered curtly. "I'm not going to demean myself with taking care of a child. Before this goes any further, it is beneath my dignity and I absolutely refuse to—"

"Consider it a favor," the archdeacon said.

Claude was silent as he raised an eyebrow at the older man.

Jacques buried his head in one hand.

"I have no idea what I'm going to do, but I'm sure your mind can come up with something that will make me regret this whole thing. In the meantime, your captain and I will start looking for someone suitable."

"Why am I involved?" Phoebus asked.

"Because you opened your mouth, Pretty Boy," Jacques said, crossing his arms. He silently tried to plead with Claude to back out now, but Claude never looked at him. This was a challenge Claude wasn't backing down from.

"I can't teach the damn thing to think on it's feet, to know what someone will do next, how to improvise weaponry, the best place to strike, or even to know just how to interrogate someone," Claude complained, as if he were forced to raise a retarded puppy. "I need cunning, I need thirst for righteousness, I need some spark in that child's eyes that separates someone like Phoebus from me."

"Lack of people skills?" Phoebus mumbled. "ow!" Phoebus rubbed his head where Claude slapped him again. "Really hard fingers, too. I'll keep an eye out."

"And don't you dare just pick up some street urchin. I want obedience and silence from the boy, as well as stamina. You bring me someone useless and I'm throwing them back out on the street. From my window.

"Now, I'm going home for some peace and quiet. You are still on duty, and I'd like to see some competence displayed this time." Claude limped off angrily, making good speed on his new crutches.

Jacques wished that somewhere in his anatomy books there were some pages he'd missed that held a cure for stupidity that wasn't fatal.


	2. I'll make a man out of you

Note: If you have no idea what something is, I'll be happy to explain (for example, chausses are chainmail socks)

Note: If you have no idea what something is, I'll be happy to explain (for example, chausses are chainmail socks). I'm actually trying to add historical accuracy. On the flip side, if I goofed on something (other than the fact that they're speaking modern English in 15th century France), do tell me.

………

The next day was the day children, and anyone else looking to make a few extra coins, were all over the city to clean up after the festival. This made the travel of those trying to return to normal life difficult. The number of people seeking Jacques' hangover remedies, and the fact that Jacques constantly needed more supplies compounded the matter. Unfortunately for him he had to fight his way across the city himself to fetch them.

No one felt like starting anything. The troublemakers were at home, nursing hangovers that felt like the apocalypse to them. Jacques had threatened to leave for the whole day and begin attending to the man in the Palace of Justice, saying that anyone who really wanted help could go there instead. Fear of the dungeons calmed the crowd and the rumors of Claude Frollo's injury had already reached them. If Frollo could nearly take off a man's jaw without a weapon, no one wanted to see what he'd do under the influence of frustration and pain while armed with two giant sticks.

Phoebus was already in a bad mood from having been recruited to find a child that Frollo wouldn't immediately throw out his window in disgust. It didn't help that the archdeacon was nowhere to be found at the moment.

Sighing, he set out to talk to a group of sweeping children as a girl slightly older than the rest of the crowd collected empty mugs, the occasional shoe, and any items too big or valuable to sweep out of their way.

After five minutes, he realized the kids were backing away from him and casting him odd looks. He still couldn't figure out what to say.

"Looking to buy something?" the girl asked, approaching him with her apron full of the cups and shoes, as well as ribbons and small jewelry. Many of the smaller bits looked stolen, given the dirt on her face, in her matted braids and the mystery stains that covered the clothes she was too big for. He had no substantial evidence and right now he didn't want to bother. Frollo wasn't visiting the Palace of Justice and wouldn't be unless something important came up. He'd end up in another argument with the man and she'd end up either stuck in the dungeons for months or killed just for being a bother.

"Uh, no thank you," Phoebus said. "I'm actually wondering if someone would like a job as an apprentice. Not for me, but for Judge Claude Frollo."

The children stopped sweeping and looked at each other. The girl began picking more colorful pieces of ribbon and the unbroken bits of jewelry from her apron and pocketed them. One of he boys picked his nose.

"Anyone?" Phoebus asked.

The girl looked up at him and smiled.

"You look about the right age," he said to her. "Do you have a brother, maybe a friend?"

Her smiled vanished. Something in her eyes burned within, as if trying to set him on fire.

"What? I'm just not a ribbon person," he said as she moved around his horse and bent down.

He left her to go back to work and looked over the crowd. "Hey mister," one of the boys called out.

"Captain, actually," Phoebus said.

"Why are you so colorful?"

"Because I'm the Captain of the Guard," Phoebus answered. "You can have some nice armor too, after a few years as apprentice."

"No, I don't want to look like a clown," the child answered and went back to his sweeping.

Phoebus was cut off from his moping about the having kids laughing at him as he felt something move about his waist. "What—"

From the corner of his eye he saw the girl swing something and he felt Achilles rear up as something hit the horse from behind.

Phoebus grabbed the reigns and held on tight as Achilles charged through the square, nearly crashing through the puppet stand where the local puppeteer was sleeping off the festivities.

Ignoring the man's yelling, Phoebus fought to calm Achilles and turned the horse around to chase the girl, again nearly hitting the puppet stand, this time almost running over the screaming puppeteer.

The puppeteer dodged in time and thankfully decided to go find somewhere else to sleep as a rock sailed past him, and flew at him after rebounding off Phoebus's spaulders.

By now the children had scattered, abandoning brooms that Achilles now crushed under his pounding hooves.

The girl hadn't run very far, knowing it was idiotic to try and outrun a horse and had grabbed a broom. She grasped it firmly in both hands and her gaze was fixed on the creature barreling down at her.

It suddenly dawned on Phoebus that she wasn't just playing a dangerous game of chicken as she swung the broom to strike Achilles in the knees. Phoebus reached for his sword to smash the broom in two, but his belt wasn't where he'd left it.

Achilles reared up again, dancing on his hind legs to avoid the broom and Phoebus was thrown heavily to the ground. His helmet was knocked off and he landed on his shoulder and rear, both of which protested his actions vehemently.

He rolled over, shoved himself up, and ran after the girl who had grabbed his sword from where she'd dropped it in order to hold the broom. She was good at running, but hadn't planned on the sword weighing so much and had to hold it with both hands, which meant she couldn't pull her skirts away from her feet.

She managed to turn a corner sharply and nearly sent Phoebus crashing into a wall before he came close enough to tackle her to the ground.

She tried to squirm out of his grasp, but he firmly held her arms to her sides and hefted her high enough that her frantically kicking legs only hit his chest armor and not the more vulnerable bits of his anatomy which she was aiming at. Not that her kicking him didn't annoy him no end.

Phoebus struggled with his anger to think straight. He now wondered if throwing her in the Palace of Justice was a good enough punishment and if it was worth forcing someone else to deal with her. He'd need to find someone really horrible to justify forcing them to put up with her.

She spat in his face, the saliva hitting his cheek squarely in a large gob.

He knew exactly what to do with her. "How would you like the job?" he asked.

To his surprise she stopped her struggles, dropping his sword from her hand.

"What?" The girl asked.

"Would you like the job?" Phoebus repeated. The girl stared at him a few moments letting the shock of the question absorb into understanding.

She nodded.

"You do?" he asked, setting her down, but not letting go.

She nodded again. Well, he may not have found obedient, but he'd found silent.

He had no idea what a spark in someone's eyes was supposed to be, but she seemed to have enough cunning to have gotten away with stealing from a lesser-trained man, possibly even kill him if he fell from his horse at a different angle. A thirst for righteousness… well, can't have everything and if Frollo did, Phoebus didn't want to be around when that happened.

"Then why did you take my sword?" Phoebus asked.

"I was mad that you only wanted boys."

Well, that was sort of righteousness. Too bad she wasn't even sort of a boy.

………………

Phoebus had finally found the Archdeacon, who said that any other attempt at finding an apprentice would result in a similar situation or something worse. Phoebus decided one disaster was already one too many and that he didn't want to be involved anymore.

"Well, then, we need to ask her father," the Archdeacon said.

"If he's anything like her, you can ask him," Phoebus protested.

"I don't know who my father is," the girl interjected. "My mother hasn't spoken to me in two months. She can't be found most of the time."

"Well, I'm not finding either one," Phoebus said.

"That brings us to the more pressing problems," the archdeacon said. Phoebus wondered if he could hide for the rest of the day.

………….

The two men were at such a loss, the only idea that came into their heads was to visit Jacques, the only man who could conjure a miracle of having a pleasant conversation with Frollo.

"If you're not here for hangover medicine, go to the back of the line," Jacques told them without looking at them as he ground ingredients in his mortar. The three stood in his workroom, away from everyone else, but also in Jacques's way, as he complained about it for five minutes. "If you two still have that blasted idea of an apprentice, you should quit now. Frankly, I thought you had gotten into the communion wine again."

"Yes, it's about that," the archdeacon said. "We were wondering if it would even be safe to give this child to Frollo."

"I don't think it'd be safe to give him a duck," Jacques answered curtly. "I'm not his mother! For all I know he's got it in for his horse!" He finally turned around and was shocked when he saw the girl standing between the two men. "Well, if it's any comfort, he'd marry her before he tried anything if that's what you're whining about. Although I do distinctly remember him saying 'boy.'"

"We don't know what to do with her," Phoebus said.

"How should I know?" Jacques complained angrily. "I thought I made it quite clear I wasn't interested in anything shaped like that. I'm sure between you two you can figure it out, but I can't see why you were worried about Frollo when The Holy Book says two men shouldn't be together even with a woman involved."

"That's not what we meant. He had the idea of dressing her as a boy and said you'd know…something. It wasn't my idea!" Phoebus defended himself as Jacques glared.

Jacques sat tapping his foot for a moment.

"The answer is no and the answer to anything after that is to stay out of my poppy seed concentrate. I'll be glad to talk to you after you injure yourselves."

Jacques turned back to his bench, but didn't resume work. He had a lot of work to do and all of it was curing drunks who wouldn't learn. It wouldn't be nearly so bad if he weren't so lonely and bored all the time.

"I want a favor too," Jacques said, sniffing. "I want company."

"The answer is no and the answer to anything after that is to stay out of your own poppy seed concentrate," Phoebus said.

Jacques turned back around and knocked on Phoebus's head, as if expecting a hollow sound. "You have nice face, but I do wish you had something other than hair behind it. I said 'company.' I was hoping for the small and furry kind, preferably orange and cuddly. Besides, I hardly think you'd be good at catching mice."

"I'll see what I can find," Phoebus said, relieved, embarrassed, and yet angry at everyone using his head as a target.

"Not you, him," Jacques said, pointing at the archdeacon. "If that's what you bring Frollo, I'm going to end up with a donkey."

"Well, I'm leaving," Phoebus said. "Somewhere there's work for me to do."

"You can go get something for her to wear," Jacques demanded from the archdeacon, who was taken aback from the sudden orders. "I'm not running a tailor shop. And if you have any more bright ideas, I hope they have to do with the church. This whole thing is ridiculous!"

The archdeacon quickly left and Jacques was alone in the room with the girl.

"I am not going to enjoy this, I want you to know that," he told her.

…………..

Jacques was faced with the two things his anatomy books could never teach him: giving a damn about the female form and how to cut hair.

The first was easy to deal with; all he had to do was make the girl look vaguely like she had a shape he might someday be interested in and was hiding it underneath a pile of clothes. He also got a kick out of sending the archdeacon to scrounge up a pair of bodies. Somehow, hours later, the archdeacon returned with one, the expression on his face a mix of embarrassment and sulk. Laughing at this through the whole process, Jacques and the girl found a way to fasten it over a men's undershirt. The rest was easy: a pair of braies replaced her skirts and over that went a giant pair of trousers that ballooned out after being tied over her skinny hips, a shirt that was just as big, and a tunic.

"Ah, green, the color of…" Jacques said, improvising a bit of praise. The sentence fell flat on its face

"Green," the archdeacon finished, for it was as close to a compliment as they could get, especially after the mistake of letting Jacques cut her dirty—in many senses of the word—hair. Despite the fact that a surgeon and a barber were one and the same when it came to occupation, Jacques was only slightly better at cutting hair than he was at noticing women. He'd never injured anyone, but one of the first things anyone learned in Paris was that one should find someone else entirely if one wanted a haircut. This was one of Jacques' worst attempts with scissors, for he had to cut out mats, knots, tangles, twigs, and tar, making her hair a misshapen, fluffy mess that looked as if someone had brushed it out in all directions after a horse had thoroughly tried—and partially managed—to eat it.

Jacques went back to work, grumbling that he had yet to have a cat as per his agreement and the archdeacon ferociously wrestled with the dirt on her face.

An hour later, Phoebus returned, noticeably dirtier than before, rubbing his arm. He ignored Jacques' happy look and took in what the metamorphosis had managed. Somewhere in the metaphorical chrysalis, things had gone horribly wrong, but at least, to him, it had still worked. He admitted he was convinced, but Jacques commented that he thought a horse in a hat would make him convinced. Admittedly, the captain wasn't too far off in that her hair and clothes were all that distinguished any gender to her. She had no detectable curves lower than her neck, she was too short for a well-grown adult to get much of a good look at without bending down and even then, she was too skinny to get much of a look at anything, to which she did not have much in the first place. If she stood straight upright and brought her limbs close to her body and had a slight wardrobe change, she could have passed as a low signpost to Phoebus and anyone else just as smart.

Phoebus led the girl away, not wanting to be involved in the farce any longer.


	3. What's this?

The sun was beginning to set when Claude heard a knock at his door. Whoever it was, they were polite enough to wait for him to cross the room on his crutches.

Claude had no real enthusiasm to deal with anyone when he stood up and seeing Captain Phoebus at the door made him wish he hadn't bothered.

"Are you lost or do you have something worthwhile to bug me about—and if you do, please let it be that someone died."

"Uh, I think we found a kid," Phoebus mumbled as he shoved the girl in front of him, hoping she'd be the target of Frollo's hands and insults and screaming from now on.

Frollo stared at her for a long time. Finally he poked her with the end of one of his crutches. "This again. Tell the archdeacon I don't want him sending any more women my way." Claude was only marginally ready to admit that the archdeacon had been trying to set him up with women to settle down with. He didn't want to have to admit that it had taken him a long time to figure out and still didn't know when it all started.

"You can tell, sir?" Phoebus asked. Maybe Jacques was right about the horse in a hat.

"I'm not blind," Claude said, sneering and poking the girl again. "What, are you going to start screaming at me next? I injured my knee, nothing else."

"So then…um…"

Claude sighed, his shoulders sagging over his crutches. "Captain Phoebus, if I were inclined to do such a thing I'd go to the whorehouse; I know where it is because I've broken up hundreds of fights and I've had to deal with at least a dozen murders. Just because your mind works one way, doesn't mean mine does. Now get your head out of the gutter and get yourself out of my doorway."

Phoebus shrugged and left. Claude crutched closer to the girl and grabbed her hair fiercely to lift her face to look at his. They both regarded the other for a long time.

She had managed her dream; she had a boy's job, one that revolved around pounding at something in some way or another, with or without skill. No more thread, no more needles of any kind, no more having to memorize shapes of chests and know how to cut cloth to warp around them. She had traded a woman's backbreaking work for a boy's backbreaking work; she had traded a dangerous, probably short life of a girl for a dangerous, probably short life of a boy; she had traded being owned by a man for being owned by a man. All in all, her position in life had merely moved sideways, although she hoped she'd be happier in this new margin of human life.

He was judging her, measuring her against some idea in his head and she knew it. There was no kindness in his face and she wasn't surprised. What did surprise her were his eyes. She could see him contemplating something deeper than just the fact that she was a girl off the street and secretly she felt complimented, even if in a second his thoughts culminated into taking then and there.

He threw her backwards and she landed on the floor. Whatever he'd seen in her he either wasn't impressed by or didn't care to deal with at the moment.

"Get up," he ordered.

She silently obeyed and hung her head.

"Look at me when I talk to you!" he yelled.

She obeyed and he was mildly impressed. Maybe it was her lack of defiance, maybe it was her speed, maybe he just liked it when people did something he told them to and nothing new came about from it.

"I don't care where you're from or what you're used to. From now on you will follow my exact orders and you will not cause trouble. You will keep yourself clean and only speak to me when I ask you to. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"I said 'Do you understand?' Answer me!" he yelled, jabbing her painfully with his crutch.

"Yes, sir."

"'Yes, Master,' now get it right. You are my servant, not an officer."

"Yes, Master."

Now that everything was in its proper place, Claude ignored her insolence and swiftly made his way down the hallway. She followed silently and he didn't correct anything she did. He continued giving orders, however. "You will tend to me and run any errands I feel I can trust you on. You will be punctual and precise. In the meantime, you will keep this place clean. You will get up before dawn and set the table and clear it immediately after meals. You will do the same in one hour from now."

He stopped and turned back to her. She stood to the side and slightly behind him and said nothing. "Shoulders out if you want to be a boy, stop cringing." He continued his trek down the hall and stopped at a table with a book on it. "There is a closet downstairs with cleaning equipment. You may go in there, but stay out of the kitchen and the pantry and do not bother the cook. Do not bother the washerwomen either when dealing with laundry. And the only things I want to see you doing in my bedroom are changing the mattress, making the bed, or putting away clothes."

Claude was in that strange part of the upper-class that all the other upper-class dumped on and all the rest of the classes avoided. He was overworked, but would afford many fine things to use to gloat over other overworked people. He was privileged enough to read and thus know of other people's more horrible experiences without having to suffer through meeting them. He had purchased one of the new books that had been made off the printing press, and was proud of the fact that only people with money like him could afford it. He sat down in the chair next to the table, one knee comfortably bent, the other annoyingly straight in the brace. "Move that."

The girl bent down and shoved his footstool under his foot, secretly in awe at the clothes she came close up to.

"I am already housing and feeding you and even paying you, I am not going to do anything else for you. I don't want to hear any crying or see any imbecility from you when I send you to train or go on duty. You are a boy now, so you had better learn to act like one. And if I find you stealing from me I shall personally behead you. Now get to work and keep far away, I'm tired of looking at you."

The girl ran down the hallway and out the door, soon returning with rags and a bucket of water, immediately setting to cleaning the floor.

Eventually, Claude set his book down, startled at her punctuality at setting the table. 'If this is what having an apprentice is like, I should have gotten one before,' he thought. 'Then again…' he mused as he watched her inelegant use of a spoon and soon her struggles with an upset stomach over the rich food.

"If you are going to be sick, go do it out on the street."

Other than making strange facial contortions, she kept her sickness down, having been given charcoal by Jacques.

The dishes were cleared away quietly and the girl went back to working.

Instead of returning to his expensive book, Claude watched her. It was a hobby of his to watch in order to absorb tiny details. Often this lead to killing people, but sometimes he put his spectatorship to other uses. He had used this knowledge of what tiny signs indicated larger aspects to watch Jacques and it took three silent trips of watching the man to decide he was actually worth having a conversation with and that they should have a little discussion about whether or not Jacques should have his hands on him; that was during the years Jacques was rather secretive about his true reasons for taking up a job which prohibited marriage to a woman. Ironically, this led Jacques to become a bit more bold about what he liked, but Claude didn't truly care as long as laws weren't broken (or at least Jacques wasn't caught so he never had to hear about it), and they both found fun in the archdeacon's reactions.

The girl was very skilled on her knees in the only way Claude felt women should be: cleaning. She didn't keep looking at him, waiting for some start of a conversation or help or pity. She ignored him as much as he ignored her and he wondered if he should feel insulted being so close to peasantry that didn't show respect in the form of unwavering shame or fear. She had yet to show any signs of stealing from him. Everything he'd started out with was still on his person, and the only time he'd let her out of his sight was when he'd sent her to fetch water for cleaning the floor. If she'd taken anything the cook would be having a fit now. Either she knew how to do her job properly or she knew how to do it properly long enough until he let his guard down and needed sleep.

"What is your name?" he asked. "Your boy name."

"Gaetan," she answered immediately without looking up.

'Quick thinking,' Claude thought. 'I wonder if she'd be that quick in battle.' He mulled over the name in his head. "And do you know what that name means?"

"A prison in Italy where they executed criminals, Master."

Claude allowed himself to smirk at her comment. He liked names that reminded people of their place in life. He was named after his father, who was a merchant who married a noble woman; his father wanted a soldier for some reason and his mother wanted a scholar for an equally unfathomable reason. Why a well-learned woman or a man hoping for a strapping and brave son would name their son Claude—meaning 'crippled'—was an eternal and annoying mystery to him.

"Why choose that name?" he asked. Somehow he'd figure out the mind of this vagabond whom he'd allowed inside his own house. It was handy that she'd cleaned his floor and a little entertainment of tossing a criminal out his own window would be a very nice present from the archdeacon. If she was actually innocent, then she could start on the fireplace and he'd see someone die sooner or later outside. As long as he got his way one way or another, he was content.

"It is my own name, if it were meant for a boy, Master."

Claude was silent for a long time in thinking of what to take of her words and what to say next. By the time he spoke again, she had left and exchanged her bucket for a broom to sweep the fireplace. "Why would anyone name a girl-child after a prison?" his deep voice echoed through the long hallway and shook the fireplace like a bell, dumping soot onto her frazzled hair. He wished he had something more threatening to say.

"Because that is what my mother said would happen to me if she could not pay the rent, Master." Claude inwardly scoffed at the fact that the Archdeacon was mad at him for naming his son 'Quasimodo' as if he were the only one to name a child like that. Maybe that was why his parents chose 'Claude' as his: a good threat to keep him in line. But then something about motherly affection suddenly clicked in his mind and he grew angry. "Your mother sold her daughter to a strange man in order to pay off the rent, thinking she had a better bargain?" What horrible, disgusting, lunatic peasantry was Phoebus dealing with when Claude wasn't there to watch him?

"I ran off, Master," she said, her voice hard to decipher from inside a giant stone box. "I thought it would be easier for her to pay rent if she only had herself to feed for a while, especially since she is pregnant again, Master."

From across the hallway, she could see his cold, pale eyes focusing on her in pure loathing. He stood up and grabbed his crutches, covering the distance between them swiftly. He grabbed her by her hair and just as quickly made his way back down the hallway toward the window.

She followed, doing her best to keep up with his undulating gait to slacken the pull on her hair.

Her story made little sense to him and he suspected her of lying, though he could not find any motive yet. Anyone who hid anything from him, however, must be a criminal; otherwise they would have no reason to hide it in the first place.

"Where is your father in all of this?" he demanded.

"He left my mother before I was born, Master!" Gaetan said, wishing her voice wasn't cracking from how hard he pulled her hair.

"And yet your mother is pregnant again and you still have no father. What kind of mother do you have? A whore?" he was quiet, keeping his usually booming voice from echoing in his hallway or from being heard in the streets. Yet he was loud and at what seemed to be his peak of intimidating because he pulled her up by her shirt and held her over the windowsill, holding his face as close to hers as possible without touching.

Gaetan blinked, trying to speak over her fear, knowing he'd carry out his threat just because he felt like it even if she did reply. She swallowed and forced herself to speak. "Yes, Master," she squeaked.

He dropped one crutch and settled all his weight on the other as he stretched his arm out as far as he could, holding her out over the streets. "I have been brought a whore's child? What kind of filth—" he stopped as he felt his voice becoming too loud. Instead he gritted his teeth to force himself into silence.

Was the archdeacon even aware of what exactly he'd sent Claude? A street prostitute so dirty her pay barely paid the rent was the mother of this child. He was tempted to let go immediately to keep from touching her any longer. How much had this child learned from her mother? What nasty diseases did she bring into his pristine and pious house?

Something stopped him from dropping her, though. Perhaps, buried deep down inside in a tiny part of his mind whose voice he could not even hear, yet it did it's best to influence him, he would feel guilt or loss at killing a potentially innocent child, at least one that was not a gypsy. Whether that was true or not, the part of his mind that he could hear was one that began reciting scripture. Had not Jesus rescued a whore from the stones of the town? Had not his words of God convinced her to give up her sinful ways and follow The Lord's very Son from then on? But this whore was already doing more than that. He may be nothing than a common man; no matter how much he worked at being a good Catholic, he'd never be more than that. He was not one to be worshipped, but he could teach her the holy ways of The Savior and, even better, help her cast off her female facets. Ever since Eve, women had been punished with a role below men and suffering pains of their womanly duties, eternally punished for having been made inferior. But had not fifty years ago his very own county's Jeanne d'Arc led men to battle, remaining virginal and being declared a martyr twenty-four years later? That brave young girl who God had chosen to give his orders to had shed all she could of her sex and become as much of a man as possible that soldiers began to suspect that there were no breasts lurking under that triumphant armor. He could have his own soldier, fighting against all wickedness against The Great and Merciful Lord, rescued from the path of sin and pitiful form of a woman, and shaped in his own image the way Adam was shaped in the image of God.

His face softened and a sly smile crept upward on his face, lighting up his snow-colored eyes. Even more frightened, Gaetan cast a quick glance at the street in panic, wondering what to do as his grip slackened along with his expression.

"Lying at this point would not be in your best interests, shall we say," Claude warned. "Have you even been sold to or solicited by any men?"

"No…Master." She was smart enough not to struggle; she didn't want to anger him further, nor did she want him to lose his grip.

"And just why did Captain Phoebus choose you of all people?"

"I attacked his horse with a broom."

Claude winced. His new Captain of the Archers was not off to a good start. He'd nearly been defeated by a street sweeper so small that Claude easily held her off her feet with one hand. At least his theory of Phoebus giving up for a day and checking out a brothel wasn't confirmed.

He sighed and set his mind to thinking. He tried not to roll his eyes and focused on his apprentice instead. She didn't appear to be lying from the look in her eyes. He could break her to see if he could force a confession, but if he was wrong then she'd no longer be of any use to him as someone to train.

If that was indeed the whole truth about her, then he now only had to contemplate how much of someone else he could put up with. He did most of the cleaning in the house himself to keep from any idle thoughts and in case he needed something to do to focus his mind on a particularly difficult case. With his leg, his house would definitely fall to shambles and she had been quite efficient in cleaning his floor already. That was one factor to consider in her favor.

Another was that this was a human being. He never cared for them in the first place, and they were a lot of work. Every day of raising Quasimodo, he vowed he'd never raise another child, even if he had to kill it in front of the archdeacon and then murder the old man to shut him up. He wanted a servant and a mind to teach strategies for killing, arresting, and interrogating and he wanted nothing else. He did not want a mind that refused his teachings and he did not want to hear about thoughts on anything else. Ever. That was a factor against her.

So far her fate rested on him deciding that seeing her die on the pavement was more fun than thinking any more or if his arm gave out.

He would have to train her. That would be difficult. Claude was a good scholar, but not a very good teacher. It had taken years to teach Quasimodo to read mere French, let alone Latin. It had taken a decade after that to instill the true meaning of many stories in The Bible on the boy. To teach reading, writing, a million different scenarios and how to survive them—or make sure someone else does not—had to take eternity and not even Jesus himself had that long to teach. That was another one against her.

However, if she was a good learner, and as cunning as he needed her to be, she'd figure out most of it herself and he'd have not one, but two fierce enforcers of justice roaming Paris and the nightmares of criminals. That was another in her favor.

Apparently it all boiled down to how he could get the most amusement out of her. He pulled her closer, but not back into his house. He leaned out to examine the street. Strays were milling about, fighting with the rats over something, nothing but a dark street with darker shapes with the occasional gleaming eyes and constant rabid chatter. He wished he had more light; seeing someone torn to pieces by mongrels piqued his curiosity. He cast her a glance, one that one would give to an old shoe, wondering if it would be best to repair it or toss it to the curb or if one could find something entertaining to throw it at. He assumed he could someday see her as a boy, and then decided yes, he could, and if the populace was as smart as Phoebus, so would they. He thought about a favor from the Archdeacon and wondered just how many people deserved to have their lives ruined—or ended—by his apprentice's presence in their lives.

Slowly, he pulled her back into the house and then threw her on the floor.

"Get up. Now."

She stood up from the floor and he immediately slapped her across the face. The sound rang out in the dark hallway, slowly dying out as if it had some desire to hang on to its short life.

To Claude's approval, the girl did nothing. She just stood where she was with her faced turned to direction it had ended up after the strike.

Claude grabbed his other crutch. He took her face in his hand and forced her to face him. He pointed a finger in her face in threat. "You are disgusting, having been born from that slut! I want you to remember what kind of degradation it is upon me to take you in and I want you to know I expect the cunning of a fox and the loyalty of a starving dog, which you are! If ever I feel reminded of where you came from I will strike you again! From now on, your life is mine and you will dedicate it to killing in the name of The Lord and the law under any and all circumstances or you will never show your face to me again." With that he stamped off to bed, leaving her in the darkness.


	4. ZipADeeDooDah

While the Minister of Justice slept, dreaming of midnight rides and leaving trails of blood in snow, a couple chatted about a nightmarish future.

"Clopin, please, I need to work. You don't need to feel the baby kicking!" the woman complained, already hindered by being heavily pregnant, now kept from her knitting her by an affectionate male hugging her and lightly placing his head on her belly.

"Oh, but Giselle, I do!" the gypsy exclaimed, holding the woman tighter in his embrace. "I can hear the tragedy in your voice, how can I not be here for you two?"

"Clopin, I need to work," the woman said. She didn't have the strength of will to fight him. She barely had the strength of will to tell him her decision.

Her mental anguish shimmered in her eyes as they threatened to shed thousands of tears and seeing that look made Clopin's chest hurt. "Giselle, what is it?" he asked, looking up and placing a hand on her cheek.

The simple act of understanding and affection broke her heart and the tears streamed down her cheeks as she began to sob.

"Giselle, please!" he said, sitting up. "I promised you marriage and money and I mean it! I just need a little more time. I'm not lying! We can run away. Tonight. We can go to Spain, or Italy, or—"

"Clopin, please!" Giselle whispered desperately, still crying. She took his hands in hers and tried to stifle her tears.

He silently pleaded for her to just give him a little more time. He truly did intend to shower her with gifts. "It's not the baby, is it?" he asked, almost panicking.

"Clopin, I cannot do this!" she exclaimed, trying to hold back sobs. She gave up and succumbed to her despair, throwing herself against the skinny gypsy.

Clopin wrapped his arms around her. "You can't? I thought we were already doing it! You're talking about love, right? I mean real love, not 'it'. That's what you mean, right, because I don't think I know anymore, but you can't mean it!"

"Clopin, I love you! I truly do!" she muttered, crying on his shirt. "You have been so good to me, but I can spare no time and you can spare no money and the landlady is banning gypsies from the brothel in the morning, Clopin."

"I can sneak in! I can—"

"Clopin, there is nothing you can do."

She was right. All he could do was sit in the tiny room covered in dust and hold her hands. He couldn't even keep her from sobbing. The room smelled of sweat and other body fluids, a constant reminder of her horrible predicament. He never liked the thought of her with other men, but that was her job and he couldn't afford to be her only client, let alone give her the money so she wouldn't have to resort to it. In truth he was elated at her pregnancy, although this meant she had no more paying clients—not even him for the Madame refused to let him try—and she worked all day weaving, sewing, and knitting in her dank cell, sometimes going without food in order to cover the rent. All he could do was rock her gently as her tears subsided.

When she had no more tears to shed she lifted her head and placed her hands on his cheeks, forcing him to look at her and forcing herself to look him in the eye and finally speak the words she never wanted to have to say. "Clopin, you can't imagine what this means to me. You will have your baby and you can tell him about your imaginary kingdom."

Clopin had drunkenly told her that he was the king of the truands, but as he soberly got to know and love her, he always felt his heart constrict when she said she thought it was all a made-up fairytale for her amusement.

"I lost one child already and now I have to give this one up as well."

"Giselle!" he cried. Now he was near tears. "Giselle, I cannot give you up. I cannot simply walk out of your life like your last—"

"You aren't like him. You really do love me. He never gave me that."

"We can meet at festivals!" he said. "I will give you flowers in the spring. You can see your child and I promise he will be fed and happy! Giselle, don't say this is the end! Love doesn't end like this! It can't!"

"Maybe you will have your little 'someday', Clopin. Maybe we will get married and you will show me your Court of Miracles. Maybe you will have all those other silly dreams we've shared, but not now and not soon. Someday we can be together again."

It was painfully obvious that she never really believed in Someday. 'Someday' he had said to her. 'We will be happy together. We will be married and I will have my people teach you and your daughter to dance for coins in the street and there will be a great crowd cheering and we will all laugh.' When she was pregnant he said that it just meant that there would be four people laughing instead of three. But with Frollo's iron fist on the city and steel claws of torture, there would be no cheering together, save for when the women were burned at the stake, cruelly kept alive through gruesome interrogations about gypsy secrets. There would be no dancing because his people hated the idea of a stranger in their group and claimed that next their king would let in Frollo himself after leading an obvious spy into their sanctuary. Now there would be no together.

"Clopin, you have no idea how painful this is!" she wailed.

He took her in his arms again and rocked her again, hugging her and his child in their last embrace together. She was right. He didn't know how painful this was. He felt his heart torn in two at her decision to leave him, but he would never know what it was like to lose a child.

Despite the way he told his stories, Frollo wasn't the only person who had tried to drown a baby in the well in front of the cathedral. The archdeacon had actually wrestled with her and only after she became so frantic she screamed and fell to her knees in hysterics did he successfully stop her.

As much as having killed the child would have given her the opportunity to work up a meager savings enough to keep warm in the winter and feed herself every day and possibly find a better job, she found herself terrified when her daughter stopped showing up in the room anymore. She missed having to share the threadbare blanket between herself and a teenager that was beginning to grow like a weed and eat like a horse. She began to miss having to help her daughter with her hair, a chore she constantly scolded the girl for never having any skill at, because she wanted to touch those dirty locks again. She wished the pile of junk taken off the streets would grow, not for money anymore but for evidence that she was no longer robbed of her own offspring. She had related these details to Clopin ever since her daughter disappeared in the early fall.

Clopin never admitted that gypsies were inclined to steal babies—only from the orphanage or where they were left on the steps of Notre Dame for it was easier on everyone involved and the children had no old loyalties the gypsies had the worry about—but he had promised Giselle he'd personally keep an eye out for her lost daughter. So far the only blonde he hadn't asked about their parents had nearly trampled him with a horse twice today.

"There will be a Someday, Giselle. I promise you. Someday we will have a Someday."

…………

Claude himself awoke to the bell's first notes in the morning, as he always did.

The two children in his care awoke before them, each attending to chores that heralded either a cruel parting or a harsh meeting.

As Quasimodo tolled the morning call to prayer and duty, Clopin evicted himself from Giselle's room before someone else found him and evicted him in a way that added to his misery.

Meanwhile, Minister Claude Frollo was greeted with a startlingly pleasant sight: the floor was scrubbed, whatever had been used to accomplish the task had been put away, and the table had been set with warm breakfast awaiting him. Gaetan was standing at the now closed window, her head bowed and her hands clasped in prayer.

Claude smiled as he made his way over to her. "The loyalty of a starving dog," he commented happily, pulling her away from the window by her shirt. He didn't let go. "Have you ever associated with gypsies?" If she had, he wanted names and locations, if not then he could happily sit down to a meal with her.

"I threw rocks at them, master," she answered. His voice had been calm and flat and gave no hint of what the correct answer was. She hoped this was the last of his questions because she threw rocks at most people having a good time.

"A little crude, but I've resorted to more barbaric means myself," Claude said, letting her go. "I do recommend you keep this down, I'm starting you on combat today and I am not excusing you from any work in the house."

He gently pushed her towards the table. She began to eat after he had sat down and ate. She didn't let it show and she certainly did not comment on it, lest the whole thing be ruined, but she was glad that he at least appeared to be in a good mood.

"You do not know how to read, do you?" he asked during an elegant pause in eating. The way he asked sounded as if he was having a nice chat over tea and cake, or what she thought people chatting over such things sounded like.

Gaetan was taken aback at him sounding so casual and especially so happy. She was also rather embarrassed, not being able to help but compare his elegant manners and movements to her own. She had porridge on her face and hair and no matter how hard she tried, the spoon refused to sit in her hand as nicely as it fit in his. He had also caught her with a giant spoonful of the porridge in her mouth. She took the spoon from her mouth and set it in the bowl, and swallowed twice, clearing her mouth. "No, master," she squeaked, further embarrassed at her lack of speed in answering him.

When he did not reply, she looked up from the table and saw him smiling silently. She decided to go back to eating and was glad when he made no comment about it.

As he ate, Claude was wondering if he should even bother with a favor from the archdeacon. 'Oh, this will be so fun,' he thought to himself. 'Twenty years of living under that crazy pansy and putting up with his torment just might be worth the revenge. And perhaps the captain will learn a thing or two about having ideas above his station.' "Sundays, then. You can learn on Sundays," he said happily. "One does not work on the Sabbath Day anyway and I had plans of what you would be doing then." Admittedly, Sunday was the day he stayed in and read up on his legal work. So long as it pertained to criminals, he was serving God and observing the day He rested after creating the world. He never tortured anyone on Sunday, but then, no prisoners were fed either.

"Eventually I may have to find some place to put you," he commented as he watched her clear away the dishes. "Do clean yourself up before you return." That was the least of his problems. She was going to be sick again soon. It would be at least another day before she would be able to keep rich food down and after that there would be a few bouts of stomach pains. If that was the case, then he'd better hurry.

While she was away he wondered what he would do with her if she proved useful in combat and strategy. He had no rooms to spare and the cook would kill both of them or die trying if he had Gaetan sleep in her room, the pantry, or the kitchen. He actually liked his cook in his employ and didn't want to risk poisoning, intentional or otherwise, in hiring a new one.

The closet was too small; it would be inconvenient to have her sleep in the washroom and that was the last place he wanted to find someone else's things. Unfortunately that left him with the great hall and the bedroom. He did have visitors every now and then and even if he never invited anyone in again, he'd still be annoyed himself at a pallet in the middle of everything.

He considered having her sleep in the Palace of Justice, but discarded the idea after a few seconds. She'd track in innumerable things from outside and it would be difficult to have his orders carried out instantly.

The only thing left was the bedroom. He bit his thumb, wondering exactly what it would cost him to have a child—a girl no less—in his room. It was a common practice to sleep with the help, even if one just slept. Another body was supposed to be somehow comforting and he could understand the need for warmth. He truly didn't relish the idea, thinking dependence on another being in one's bed as childish. Besides, if that was how The Good Lord intended for people to act, he wouldn't have given mankind blankets—or at least given him them, he didn't care what the peasantry did. However, he barely used the room himself. Perhaps moving a few things could manage enough space for him to comfortably ignore her. So long as she showed no sign of her mother's disgusting and whorish ways and remembered that any form of nudity in front of any person who was not a spouse was a sin in God's eyes, it would be easy. He'd be asleep anyway.

There would be rumors, but there would be rumors anyway. A duke had suffered from them for a year after he took in a boy of nine as a servant after his maid ran away with a traveling merchant's son. How exactly those rumors began to involve his cat, Claude never knew and had never investigated, not wanting to hear them in the first place. Well, if anyone did say them to his face—or hers if she lived up to his expectations—they could be beheaded or arrested; he could choose which on a whim.

There was no other way around it, but at least he could delay the decision. He was getting too far ahead of himself, especially when it was important that he hurry or his plans would be ruined for the whole day.

She returned with her face and hair cleaned of food and a rag badly tucked into her vest.

He stood up and walked over to her, smiling as if he was completely unaware that he was using crutches and oblivious to his knee.

She watched him with a blank look, having no clue what to do with him when he was happy. He put a hand softly on her back and pushed her along as he led her out the door. "Oh, Gaetan, I do hope today is half as splendid as I imagine it will be."

Gaetan wondered if she should be frightened. At least she knew what he was thinking when he held her out over the window.

……………

"Oh good, I was afraid I'd missed you," Claude greeted Phoebus, as the captain stood in the doorway of his room at the barracks.

"Now I'm afraid," Phoebus said. His shirt was barely thrown on over his braies. He was wondered why the sun wasn't up and he was.

Last night hadn't left him with the most comforting thoughts and drinking half a bottle of wine and spilling the other half all over himself as he'd accidentally wandered into an argument between some gypsies hadn't solved his problem. He hadn't solved the gypsies' problem either, because after listening to five minutes of their arguing, he didn't think it could be solved for he couldn't understand any of it.

"I need to speak to several people today, and I cannot take over his lessons in my condition. I am leaving you in charge of Gaetan."

"Who?" Phoebus asked, yawning. He looked down at the kid Frollo gently shoved forward and suddenly the red mark on her cheek woke him up a bit. "You hit her?"

"My apprentice, my property, your idea!" Frollo reprimanded the captain.

"But…why?"

"I felt like it," the minister answered causally.

"You were right sir," Phoebus said, looking down at the shorter blond. "This was a stupid idea and I should never, ever, have even thought of this. Can we put her back and pretend this never happened?" Which would take at least two more bottles of wine, Phoebus figured.

Gaetan started to back away. Phoebus didn't notice, but Claude did. He put his hand to her back, fingertips only, but pressed firmly enough that she got the idea not to move. It was already too late to turn her head, so she was forced to vomit where she stood and retched on Phoebus's feet.

"Actually, I think this was a wonderful idea," Claude said, taking his hand away to give her the freedom of movement to lean back and wipe her face with her rag. "Now, I want him to learn horsemanship and armed combat." Claude still talked as if he were having an idle conversation about the weather, but put a strong and slightly threatening emphasis on Gaetan's gender. "Daggers and short swords only. Nothing longer than those new Italian blades."

"Why me?" Phoebus asked. He wanted to go back to bed and wake up when this was all over.

"Not you specifically, but I can't teach him myself as I am. Just tell whoever you put him with that I'm willing to pad their salary if they're a good enough teacher for the week." Claude pulled out a dagger in such a way that Phoebus wondered why the minister accused the gypsy's tricks of being magic.

Distracted by the fantastic performance, Phoebus was too late to realize the potential danger of Claude Frollo armed with a weapon.

"So nice of this to be returned to me," Claude commented, tossing the dagger in the air and catching it by the hilt. He did so again, secretly testing his balance on his crutches. He had to pin them close using his shoulder and one elbow as he suddenly leaned forward and grabbed Gaetan's arms, pinning them behind her back and held his dagger to her throat. "I am allowing one week for him to learn how to evade this maneuver or I will slit his throat when I try it again. If he cannot do it, I never want to see him again because he's no use to me. Do I make myself clear?"

"As clear as you're going to be," Phoebus said. He wanted to tell Frollo he didn't want to play this game anymore.

"Good." Frollo released Gaetan. He pulled out a belt and sheath from a pocket.

Phoebus opened his mouth to ask exactly how much Frollo carried on his person under his tunic and then the frightened, awake part of his brain told him he didn't want to know. "Sir—" he tried to protest.

"Any idiot who doesn't walk away from a knife fight they know they can't win when they have been given the chance doesn't deserve to live," Claude argued, waving the handle of the dagger at Phoebus.

Claude sheathed the dagger and handed the belt to Gaetan and finally began addressing his apprentice. "Lose that and die. I know it may be tempting to test it out on innocent people or Captain Phoebus, but if you do, I will have you tried and punished."

"Yes, master," Gaetan replied, buckling the belt around her waist. Frollo astounded the populace due to his broom-like physique in comparison to the damage he was capable of. However, the belt made for him sagged down to Gaetan's hips and clung on for dear life.

"I should like him back around six this evening. Try not to break anything." Claude walked off. "I think this might be a nice day," he said to himself.

"I think this is going to be a horrible day," Phoebus told himself. He waited for Frollo to be out of sight before going inside to clean up. "What are you going to do next? Bleed on me?"

Gaetan handed him her rag.

He sighed and took it and then wiped off his foot. He stared at the rag for a second and then decided to toss it in a pile of trash instead of hand it back. "It's filthy. You shouldn't go carrying that around with you anymore."

Gaetan said nothing as Phoebus searched for his pants in his bed. Given that people came back to camp with limbs turned into bloody mulch every day, cleanliness wasn't something he learned in the war. Not finding them in the bed, he moved on to the piles of clothes which he'd always promised himself he'd sort between dirty and clean, but he'd promised himself that since he was eleven.

He found his clothes under the table and wondered how brightly colored armor could be hidden in a pale shadow.

He grabbed his pants and turned around. In barracks, it was nothing to dress and change into front of other men, no matter what the age difference. He'd been a child when he went to war and he'd shared the barracks with men Frollo's age—though thankfully not with his disposition. Right now he had a spectator, a female spectator that was supposed to be a male spectator. She said nothing and just stood there, as if trying to add to his meager amount of furniture. He didn't need this. He didn't need any of this. He certainly didn't need this so early in the morning. It didn't help that part of his mind was asking questions about what exactly Frollo did to her last night.

"Can I have five minutes alone, please?" he asked, practically begging.

She turned around and left, closing the door to his room without saying a word or looking as if she wanted to.

"You could at least pretend to be upset," he said, slightly offended.


	5. Seize The Day

Phoebus's five minutes had turned into thirty by the time he returned, dressed in full armor.

Gaetan was standing at the side of the door, her hands clasped behind her back. She had solved her belt problem by tying a knot on either side of the belt, but the thing still fell to her hips and sagged.

"As much as I hate this idea, I think you'll do the least damage on a horse," he said.

Gaetan stood and waited for him to move.

"You know, some sort of reaction would be nice."

Gaetan blinked.

"One day with that guy and you're acting as creepy as him!" Phoebus yelled. "Well, do something!"

Gaetan cocked her head to the side in confusion. "Do what, sir?" She wondered if she had the right title for him.

"Just…never mind, come on." Phoebus walked to the stables. "If you want to talk, you can."

Gaetan said nothing as they entered the stables.

Achilles immediately began frantically stamping in his pen upon seeing Gaetan. A bad haircut and a pair of pants didn't fool the horse. Phoebus felt insulted at the fact that the horse seemed smarter than he was, but tried to calm it nonetheless. "Easy, easy. She's going to leave you alone. Easy." Phoebus turned back to Gaetan. "Okay, first rule: you leave my horse alone from now on or I'll let Frollo—hey!"

Gaetan stopped in mid-motion as she put a piece of old, dried alfalfa to her mouth.

"What in the world are you doing? That's for horses! Don't tell me you've been stealing from stables!" One minute into instructing her and he was wishing he'd arrested her and 'forgotten' to tell Frollo. "Say something!"

Gaetan took her hand away from her mouth. "And chickens, sir."

Phoebus put his hand to his face. "I actually meant something other than that."

Gaetan looked at the grass in her hands.

Phoebus slowly took his hand away from his face. Blanching at the situation, no matter how insane it was, wasn't going to fix it.

Gaetan held her hand out flat, her fingers as far back as they would comfortably go, holding out the food for Achilles, who scoffed and turned his head.

"Oh come on!" Phoebus reprimanded his horse.

Reluctantly, Achilles accepted the peace offering, grunting at Gaetan after devouring the food to show he was still upset.

"Second rule, you eat people food," Phoebus said. "Third, start making some noise now and then, this is getting weird."

"Yes, sir."

"Close enough. Here, pay attention." Phoebus set to teaching her how to saddle a horse and how to adjust it. The horse he chose was the smallest horse that was used by common soldiers. Achilles and Frollo's horse were trained to listen to one specific rider and one specific rider only. This horse, however, was trained to follow orders from anyone, so long as they were holding its bridle or sat on top of it. Admittedly, this made horse thievery possible, but Frollo felt that being dragged through the city by that very horse would be a good deterrent. Whether this was true or not, the stables were always full.

It took two tries to mount the horse, but Gaetan found out how to turn her foot in the first stirrup and Phoebus didn't have to resort to helping her up. After Gaetan got used to the different ways of directing the horse, the two finally left the stables. Gaetan hadn't said anything since feeding Achilles, but Phoebus didn't like the way she looked at him; it made him feel he was being watched a bit too closely and he was afraid she'd spit in his face again.

"Stay close to me," Phoebus said as he mounted Achilles, who whinnied in agreement. It wasn't for Gaetan's protection so much as his own and the rest of the city's.

Gaetan steered her horse out of the stables after him. "Yes, sir."

"Look, stop that," he complained. "I know Frollo was screaming nonsense about silence and obedience, but I'm not him and I don't want you to think I am! I've been in Paris for two days and I just want a nice conversation with someone. I'm sure that if you're as smart as you must be to have survived living with him, you can conjure up something more than 'Yes, sir.' And stop calling me 'sir,' it makes me feel old. Now shut up and talk!" Achilles rolled his eyes and Phoebus realized the words that just came out of his mouth. "Except for making a comment about what I just said."

"Women and servants are not meant to speak up," Gaetan said immediately.

"Well, you're not supposed to be either right now, so you can save being quiet for when you are." He signaled to Achilles to start his patrol around the city, keeping his horse at a slow canter for Gaetan to follow at. He still didn't trust her, but she was his best bet at ever getting 'Lovely weather we're having' without the phrase indicating he should watch out for anvils falling from the sky.

"My father was a soldier."

"See, there, a nice—wait, I thought you said you didn't know who he was."

"I don't, I just know he was a soldier and left for the war when my mother told him she was pregnant."

Now it was Phoebus's turned to be silent for a while. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"Well, if you go telling other people about that, I want you to include the fact that I was nine when I left for the war and no matter what your mother looked like I wouldn't have been interested."

"I should hope not. She wanted to get married. You're not old enough now."

"How about you go back to calling me 'sir.'" Phoebus said. This girl was quickly making him insecure. First he felt stupid, then he felt unattractive, then old, now her age.

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

"Doing what on purpose?"

"Playing mind games with me."

"Not much to play with."

"I walked into that one didn't I?" Phoebus muttered.

"Is that why you were only concerned about me afterwards?" Gaetan asked. It was startling, the way she no longer talked like a tiny child, and slightly comforting. It no longer felt like a game or like she was intentionally reticent out of hatred.

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"You get there in the end. So far."

"Thanks for the compliment. Should I be concerned?"

"My father's concerns were paying for wine, paying for my mother, and that nothing kept him from just having fun. You can obviously afford wine, you don't want anything to do with my mother, and you could always have had someone else train me if you are not having fun."

"Right now, nothing I do has anything to do with fun."

"Then I do not know how to help you with that concern of yours. If you have any other concerns, I don't know what they are."

"In other words you have no idea what I'm saying?" Phoebus asked.

"I have no idea what you're thinking."

It wasn't a nice chat about the weather, but he hadn't been hit or hit on and no one was screaming or throwing rocks and he'd sort of been complimented. Phoebus hoped that things would improve beyond this in time and that this wasn't the best he'd ever get. He sighed. As much as he wanted to stop such things, he preferred to dance around painful subjects when it came to dialog. "He didn't…um…"

Gaetan gave Phoebus the same look Frollo had given her when he first laid eyes on her. It wasn't so much of disapproval, but one of tired frustration and wondering if it was malice or stupidity that had masterminded the current situation.

"What?" Phoebus asked.

"You're not stupid," Gaetan said, turning back to focus on riding her horse. The animal jostled her with every step. She wondered how Phoebus, born with much more sensitive anatomy when it came to sitting on something moving, could stand riding for so long. There was some trick to moving with the horse which she could only manage by concentrating; perhaps it took so much mental work to keep it in mind that Phoebus might have more brain to spare if he walked.

"I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop," Phoebus said. There was no chance in hell he was getting a sincere compliment from someone who looked at him the way Frollo looked at gypsies. That thought suddenly reminded him of something very important.

He grabbed the reins of her horse and pulled her down an alleyway. "Look. I may not know what that damn man thinks all the time, in fact most of the time I don't know what he's scheming up, but I know what Frollo thinks of gypsies. I don't think that way and while I'm training you, I'm not going to stand for arresting or hurting an innocent person, no matter who they are, understand me?"

"The penalty for insubordination is death."

"Let me put it this way: I don't care. Now do you understand me?"

Gaetan's scheming gaze changed. There was some question in her mind and Phoebus felt rather happy that finally he wasn't the only one taking a while to think things over. He was apprehensive, though, expecting a very frightening answer from her. "I don't care about gypsies one way or another," Gaetan finally answered. "I don't care about most people one way or another."

"Well, you're going to learn to care about people with this job. You have to. Whatever's going on in that creepy brain of his, even Frollo cares about people. I just want you to care about everyone the same way. If you don't I'm going to do my best to be worse than he will. Now, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, sir," Gaetan said. "Maybe someday."

"Well, work on it."

"Sir?" Gaetan said, as Phoebus led Achilles out of the alleyway.

"This had better be good."

"I lied," she said fiercely. "I know where my mother is, but I ran away from home four months ago. She always said I was too expensive to care for, so I left when I found she was pregnant again. I thought with only herself to support for a while she would be able to afford a child this time around. I couldn't go back before and I can't go back now or my master will kill me. She was the only person I cared about and the best I ever did for her was leave."

Phoebus had stopped immediately at her first sentence. He certainly hadn't expected a confession of anything short of murder by now. He especially didn't expect an angry confession. Even back in the war, when someone told a story from the heart, they poured it out by crying into homemade alcohol and the anger came later. But Gaetan said it not angrily at him, but at herself. It wasn't a justification; it wasn't a weapon she used against others. It was something she beat herself up with and turned the bitterness of it out at others.

"You'll learn," Phoebus said. When did he suddenly have a lack of people skills? "Take your time."

………….

Clopin had changed the location of his puppet show to the other corner of the square. He had also changed his strategy and his stories. He wasn't in the mood to talk about orphans and he hoped that Giselle would at least let him sit and watch her if he found her lost daughter. He spoke of demons lurking in the guise of strange omens: water that showed no reflection, cats that could only speak in echoes, and hens that crowed like roosters. He spoke of them lurking everywhere, watching, always watching. These things could not be killed; they'd only find a new body to inhabit and inciting their wrath would endanger children further, because that was the only target of these boogie men. Only by being obedient little children and recognizing the monsters could children break the spell and maybe even rescue a victim if their faith was strong enough.

Truthfully, he thought the whole story was rubbish, but it was the best he could come up with, basing it on a story Giselle used to tell to her daughter. She had told it to him the night her daughter disappeared. Admittedly, he left out the part of banishing the spirits with a flaming cross and the spirits dying, but he didn't want to encourage kids to kill animals or start brandishing fire.

At the end Clopin asked the audience if anyone had seen any lost children, homeless waifs or translucent and lost spirits that even roamed in the daytime.

The crowd was silent.

"Anyone?" Clopin asked.

One kid began to pick his ear.

"I can't say that I've seen any such things," a familiar deep baritone said. Clopin jumped in fright and the children backed away as Frollo crutched his way over to the puppet show. "Go away," he scolded the crowd of children, causing them to scatter in fear.

Clopin had already had enough of the minister and he frankly had had enough of everything else right now. The gypsies were forming violently opposing factions, groups disbanding and rearranging themselves overnight, changing at least twice a day and almost always screaming and throwing rocks at each other. There was currently less street entertainment and a lot more street disruption. If anyone else were in charge of justice, Clopin would have gladly let many of them be arrested, for the squabbles were over opinions of his now-dormant love life.

Frollo had nothing to do with the landlady barring gypsies from the brothel, but at the moment he might as well. For all Clopin cared at the moment, Frollo was the reason for all the bad things going on, including all the times he could never find a matching sock. Clopin had thrown himself into his pitiful puppet show, hoping for something to improve, and not only was his audience as helpful as a duck when one needed milk, but the minister had scared it off. Clopin needed something, anything at all, he felt he could take out his frustrations on.

"What kind of insane asylum are you running here?" Clopin screamed.

"I'm sorry, what?" Claude said, backing away. He hadn't come prepared to be yelled at by a man who had painted socks on his hands.

"Your stupid captain nearly ran me over twice and I was nearly killed by someone hurling a brick!" Truthfully it was a rock and truthfully his people were throwing them all over Paris only to change opinion or alliance a few hours later and hurl them at someone else.

"Captain Phoebus was throwing rocks?" Claude asked. This was certainly not in his plan for the day. His plans hinged on the puppeteer staying where he usually was. He already had to make different plans now that the man had moved his puppet stand to the other end of the square.

"No! Someone else was throwing rocks!" Clopin yelled. "I didn't see them!"

"And why not?"

Clopin didn't have an answer to that that would fit his mood. He didn't want questions, he just wanted to be able to scream.

Claude, however, knew that the gypsy usually slept most of the day after the Feast of Fools and was either drunk or hungover as well. "Sleeping on the streets, even in odd-colored boxes, is against the law, which will just lead you to the Palace of Justice." Claude noticed the gypsy must have missed the last two days of rumors somehow, for the man was now spent of anger and staring quizzically at Claude's legs and crutches as if they were a new form of animal. Claude hoped this would actually make things easier. "Now, I appreciate you leaving me out of your little act, although I'm not quite sure what you're trying to accomplish, but I have somewhere to be and if you don't move right now I'll remind you that my throwing arm hasn't been damaged!"

Clopin sidestepped the minister, still staring, and let Frollo pass. "Too bad it's not against the law to be a pompous a—"

"I heard that."

Clopin fumed. Still fuming, he slipped into a shadow. If all of Paris was going to go crazy, it would be best to keep an eye on the more dangerous crazies.

………………

"Ah, there you are," Claude said, making his way toward the archdeacon.

"I wish I weren't," the archdeacon said. "Aren't you supposed to be taking things easy?"

"Actually, that was what I came to speak to you about. I must report that I shan't be attending for a while due to the obvious circumstances, but given them I thought it was time Quasimodo got to know some other people, perhaps a meeting every Sunday."

"You're allowing him out of the bell tower?" The archdeacon was shocked at the implications of Frollo's words. At first he thought Frollo had come to confess to having murdered his apprentice and wanted it absolved as a favor.

"Perhaps someday, but for now I thought he should meet someone closer to his own age. Besides, I can't be going up so many stairs in this condition. Of course, if you feel it shouldn't be allowed..."

"What? Why, what exactly are you planning?"

"I was planning on sending my apprentice, at least as long as he is in my service. I was actually hoping Quasimodo would be so helpful as to teach him how to read."

The archdeacon considered this. The poor hunchback would be introduced to someone new, who the archdeacon could likely have a stronger influence on to be nicer to the poor boy. Frollo wouldn't be showing up for at least two months. Quasimodo would be teaching The Bible to someone else.

"Of course, I may consider holding back on my plans if I feel I'd need a favor from you later on. I just wanted to see if it was a possibility today; I'm clearing things up right now before I have to go home and rest."

"So that's your little plan," the archdeacon said. He wondered why Frollo was being to transparently obvious.

"Not really," Claude said, as he saw Phoebus and Gaetan arrive in front of the church to water the horses. "Captain, I take it you can handle lessons as well as patrol?" The minister quickly made his way over to them for further conversation.

"Yes, sir," Phoebus answered.

Claude was in a good mood. A good mood made it easier to keep his composure and poise. When he managed to keep those around him, he managed to keep his voice down, though this never made him any less threatening, in fact, sometimes it seemed worse. So far, he had managed to keep his composure and he had nearly tricked two men into doing just what he wanted them to. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that he would definitely get away with tricking three as he had planned.

"I heard there has been some rather odd commotion lately. Are you handling it?"

"So far my men have had to arrest three people, so I'm ordering more soldiers around the city, sir. Nothing you need to be bothered by."

"Do tell me if there is anything that does need my attention." Claude turned around suddenly, too fast for someone who thought he was an unknown watcher.

Clopin jumped, startled that he'd been caught as he saw Claude make immediate eye contact with him.

"You there, come here!" Claude yelled to the puppeteer.

At first Clopin hesitated, and considered running away. But the archdeacon was looking at him as well, and Clopin figured that Frollo must have learned his lesson about drowning people in front of the man, and hoped he applied the lesson to beating people with sticks. It would be so much easier to keep up his façade as a silly and harmless entertainer of children if he appeared as innocent as possible. Silently cursing the statues at ground level for not being better made for hiding, the fact that Claude was speaking so quietly and Clopin had to come in closer as the minister moved farther from the church, the fact that Frollo wasn't standing in any position Clopin could read lips from, and the fact that he didn't already know exactly what new developments were transpiring purely because he had been out partying and Frollo hadn't, he made his way over to the minister.

"I heard you had some complaints about my captain yesterday," Claude said, plucking the feather out of Clopin's hat.

"But—" the gypsy started.

"I personally would like to apologize, for I have my own complaint. Phoebus, I thought I said I'd like my apprentice to learn riding, not sitting."

"Sir, I—"

Not letting Phoebus get any real words in edgewise, Claude stabbed Gaetan's horse in the rear with the tip of Clopin's feather. The feather was an old gypsy trick, always tipped with either glass or metal in a point and could be used by the rare literate gypsy for writing out warnings and threats and more often was used to injure or kill.

Gaetan's horse panicked and nearly ran over the puppeteer as it took off, full speed, without any guidance or directions.

Claude tossed the feather back to Clopin, who hung on to the edge of the well for dear life. "Dear me, Phoebus, I did ask you to try not to break anything during lessons."

Clopin winced, hoping none of the distant crashing sounds were his puppet stand as he stepped off the well.

"Sir—"

"Oh, come now. I broke three fingers, my arm, and my collarbone when I learned to ride."

"You learned to ride like that?" Phoebus asked, shocked at how Frollo stood there and smirked. He preferred the minister upset and with a one-track mind. At least then he could tell who Frollo was going to try to murder.

"No, not really. It is quite amusing, though. Well, the most important part of learning how to be on a horse is to know how to survive falling off of one."

"Oh, no!" Phoebus yelled, and took off, following the trail of destruction and again forcing Clopin into a panicked dodge.

"I believe that should put things even," Claude said happily.

Deciding he'd had enough of horses, Clopin decided to quit trying to accomplish anything in the surface world. He figured he'd learned all he could successfully and he would send someone else to get killed if they wanted to learn more.

"I'm sorry, where were we?" Claude asked the archdeacon, who was still reeling from what had just happened.

"Sundays will be fine."

"But there's so much for him to learn, I'm not sure if I should really spare that much time."

"It would hardly be any trouble at all."

"But what if I need a favor later on?"

"Consider this free."

"Ah, splendid!" Claude said. "I really must be leaving now."

"Thank The Lord!" the archdeacon whispered.

Claude left, pausing for a second and then altering his intended course as he heard the jingle of a tambourine.


	6. Lack of Education

A ring of people had gathered around Gaetan, who had fallen in the street. She rolled over from her face-down sprawl on the cobblestones. As she slowly checked bits for severe injuries, she remembered Frollo's dagger and immediately stopped to check for that as well.

Though Gaetan was relieved that it was where she'd left it and it was intact, everyone in the crowd either took a large step back or ran away altogether. They recognized Frollo's dagger. Curiosity and wanting someone to complain to kept them where they were, but no one wanted to help Gaetan until they were sure she hadn't stolen the dagger and that they wouldn't be in trouble for helping a thief.

Phoebus had had to shove his way through the crowd; no one had done much when he'd ordered everyone to clear away because he was Captain of the Archers. He was starting to understand how effective Frollo's lack of people skills actually kept order, although he wasn't in the least bit interested to start acting like the man and arresting everyone for being in his way. After conquering the obstacle course of people, Phoebus rushed over to Gaetan, who pushed herself up, trying to stay off one of her wrists.

"Are you alright?" he asked frantically. As the crowd, now bored that no one was severely injured or was under arrest, began to disperse Phoebus noticed carts with wheels knocked off, barrels smashed by the horse, overturned tables and food, hay and pieces of broken equipment scattered for several yards all around. The horse had smashed a chicken coop and terrified poultry fluttered everywhere. "Can you see straight? Back injury? Did you black out when you fell?"

Angrily, Gaetan shoved him away with both hands, only to rub her right wrist furiously afterward. "I am not a child and neither are you!"

Phoebus was beginning to understand Frollo's disposition slightly. If the only people he ever dealt with had her attitude, if all he did was try to fight something that would never truly go away, he'd want to strangle someone too. But as much as Phoebus wanted to, he wasn't someone who actually would. He just sighed and stared at a stain on his shirt he'd gotten from when she pushed him. "Yup, bleeding on me. Fine. Your head's not that damaged and you don't seem to have any back pain, so next time stay loose and don't tense up when you fall. You're getting back on that horse." Phoebus looked around. "Or, we get you on a different horse and start again."

"Yes, sir." This was a different tone coming from Gaetan. She didn't sound like she wanted to spit in his face anymore and actually seemed to approve of what he was saying.

"First you ridicule me, then you tell me I'm not stupid, then you tell me not to act stupid. It would help if you made up your mind and stuck with it," Phoebus said. "And please tell me it's the second one."

"You were in the war when you were younger than I am now," she said, flatly.

"Exactly where is this leading?"

"You saw a lot of people suffer, didn't you?"

"Yes I did. I saw a lot of people suffer and a lot of people die. A lot of innocent people. Kids your age lost legs and their lives. I even had to kill a few. What's your point? If you want to go there I'm having nothing to do with it." It had taken Phoebus a long time, but he eventually concluded that the war had nothing to do with anyone's intelligence, his included. It was painful when he realized years of wishing that he'd eventually find a point in it all, glory, manliness, honor, truth, justice… none of that was anywhere near the battlefield and never would be. The only thing you found there was grief, misery, pain, and death. He hoped those would only take the rare vacation to Paris and stay where he'd left them.

"You wanted to come back to somewhere completely different," Gaetan said. "Women my age would be seeking suitors and anyone who treated them the way my master treats me would be the best they could hope for."

"Don't ever put that image in my head!" Phoebus exclaimed. He wondered if God was punishing him or testing him—he always thought there was no real way to tell the difference until you were dead and he didn't want to find out very soon—someone nearly half his age was practically patting him on the back and telling him that the world just doesn't work the way he wanted and he should keep his chin up, but stop believing in things like fairies and goblins. She was right and that was the very reason Frollo was going to be laughing at his expense all day. He had to start not only treating Gaetan as a grown man—neither of which he thought she was anything close to—but to give her the same thing he had and wished he never had. He had to throw her directly into the battlefield and hope she'd come crawling back alive at night and just keep repeating the process. She had to learn how not to die and she had one week before she was nothing but a wooden marker in the cemetery and very funny joke for Frollo to remind him and the archdeacon of, probably every day.

"Riding isn't going to help save your life is it?" Phoebus asked, hoping against all probability that there was some factor he was forgetting and that Gaetan would just politely remind him of it and tell him he was wrong.

"No, sir," she answered.

Wonderful. He was beginning to think she was right about how he was silly to think the world should work at least a little bit better than it did. He was also beginning to wonder if she was wrong and he actually was an idiot. Some part of him wondered if there was something strange in the Paris drinking water and if everyone, including him, was insane. Instead of going back to Achilles as his original plan had been, he just put his hand to his temples. "Have you been waiting all day to tell me that?"

"I thought you'd figure it out soon enough."

"Okay," he said and sighed. "Go to the hospice and get yourself fixed up. Meet me back at the barracks when you're done. I have to go do something really, really stupid." He kept his hand where it was. He was tempted to go with her and ask for something for his head, but it didn't hurt, he just didn't want to think about anything. What he really needed was a lot of wine and somewhere to hide for a year.

"It could be worse, sir," Gaetan said.

"How?"

"You could get married."

……………….

For Claude, beautiful and sexual were two very distinct concepts. Wondering what the vaguely musical sound was, he had followed it, having had nothing better to do. The source of a mildly amusing noise turned out to be a familiar gypsy woman. What she was doing could hardly be considered dancing and shaking the silly drum with bells could hardly be considered music, but Claude had found he could hardly move.

Instead of heading home, he had seated himself on a nearby bench and slowly recovered from being happily stunned at the fact that the woman who had both humiliated him and terrified him two days earlier had changed into more appropriate attire—though there was definitely room for improvement—and was doing a far more appropriate dance.

Her cruel dance, meant to incite the worst desires within the human soul, had been replaced by a crueler one, meant to do nothing at all but was causing a more dangerous desire in Claude. He had been set upon by a sickness that had no cure and would worsen over time. He was struck down by God with a bolt that could fell the greatest of men. Eventually, he would find himself in love, his heart played by her soft fingers the way she played her tambourine, but right now, in the mild onset, all he had was intrigue.

Claude wasn't one for sitting in leisure, but he'd put up with a lot of pain to enjoy today and now that he was out of mockery and tricks, he wasn't about to get up unless the bench caught on fire—and it had to be a big fire or else he'd just warm his hands and watch people panic. However, he was reminded as to why he never liked taking time off. His mind was a disastrous jumble, remembering bits of the amusement he'd had but in random order, wondering how he could arrest the gypsy for messing with his head without getting up, wondering why she could afford such obviously expensive bangles and never wore any shoes, whether or not the pet goat's training included housetraining, marveling at her pretty feet and hands and hair and wondering why, though thankful she wasn't making his mind conjure up images that could endanger him.

His reverie was broken hours later by a familiar blonde trying to get his attention.

"Captain Phoebus, if you are here to tell me you cannot find something so obvious as a rampaging horse, I'd like to remind you that the Feast of Fools ended two days ago."

Phoebus decided that he should ask the soldiers not to mention that he gave up on finding the horse and asked them to wait it out and bring it back to the stables when it had calmed down. "Actually, sir, I've found a tiny obstacle in teaching Gaetan."

"How tiny?"

"Not very."

Claude crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the captain. "Where's the last place you saw him?"

"I didn't lose him, sir."

"Dead?"

"No."

"Well, what could possibly be your problem?"

"I can teach him with short swords and cinquedas, but I don't think he should be using weapons that big."

"If he lost my dagger and you're covering for him—"

"It's not that sir; he still has it."

"Well then put him back on the horse or teach him how to use it. Start with 'the sharp end goes in the other guy.' I'm sure even you can manage that."

"Well, I can, sir, but… but I never really learned close combat. Not with those sir. And I think she needs to grow a bit more to learn to properly hit someone in the jaw."

"Phoebus, would you please learn to explain yourself in three sentences or less?"

"Well, you know how to fight with daggers."

"Is it possible that you are asking me for a favor?"

"Very." It was also very possible Phoebus was going to start praying to God to strike him with lightning as a change of luck.

"It hardly seems fair that I'm paying you extra now. We can call that off and consider the whole thing even."

"Sounds great sir." It sounded like three bottles of wine.

……………..

Most of the rest of the Gaetan's training that day was spent listening to Frollo scream.

Instead of immediately beginning training, Claude went into the stables, saying that it was important, regardless as to whether or not Gaetan had returned from the hospice. He didn't speak to his horse, but he stroked it, putting great force on his hand as he touched the massive destrier. The horse was obedient and did what was asked of it and so it deserved a minute of his time.

He did not understand the creature's affection towards him. To him it was odd for a creature to desire the happiness of another creature of a different species purely for the sake of invoking happiness from them. He believed in friendship and romance; he just never bothered with either much because he didn't like most people or there was too much risk involved in trying. However, having an animal for companionship made no sense to him and an animal seeking companionship from people made just as much (or little).

He cared for his horse, but in the way he intended to care for his apprentice: it was trained, given food, shelter, and any other essentials; he would give it what he thought would enforce loyalty to him—he wondered what he should substitute for apples and chunks of sugar when it came to humans—and when he thought it needed and deserved it, he showed it affection—again he wondered how to deal with humans, for he was not about to scratch someone's ears or neck.

There was another concern of his. His destriers tended to become similar to him in personality and were rather reclusive and tended to get restless if they went too long without seeing him. He had survived, which is entirely different from avoiding, the plague. Although it was far less virulent than centuries before, he was off duty for three weeks and the horse he owned at that time had destroyed tons of equipment by chewing it to pulp and had smashed it's way out of the stables four times, and somehow found its way to his house twice. He did not want his horse to go around breaking things. At least not now.

When his horse bit at the air and curled it's lip, threatening Gaetan that it would do the exact same to any body parts of hers that got close enough, Frollo commented that he'd found why the horse seemed to dislike Phoebus's, claiming it didn't like feminine males. This lead to an argument with a lot of finger-pointing, name-calling, and tangents from both men while the horses tried to join in. Eventually neither side won—or even seemed to remember what the fight was about—but somehow Frollo had conceded that if Phoebus shut up, he did his job well and Phoebus conceded that if Frollo shut up, he was good at keeping order in the city single-handedly.

When the fight ended, Frollo left the stables and insisted on lecturing Phoebus as well as Gaetan on Kampfringen and Ringen am Schwert, detailing all he knew of their history and masters. He went on to speak of Fior Di Battaglia and how it influenced modern battle and how even the city's hired soldiers were trained in its techniques involving polearms. Frollo just got louder and angrier as the two just stared, equally confused as to what he was saying, neither wanting to tell him that they had no idea what he was talking about because half the words he uttered were Italian or German and his voice, built for the softer ululating words of French and Latin, stumbled over the foreign languages like a blind and drunk donkey with three legs.

Both began to understand him when he began to talk about the basics of the styles: grappling, punches, holds, pinning, and controlling balance, both of you and your opponent and both with and without various weapons. Satisfied that his audience was showing at least some comprehension, he sat down on part of a fence by the stables and excused Phoebus to return to duty. He began to instruct Gaetan on different ways of holding a dagger, rapping her once the head when she wasn't fast enough and kicking her to the ground with his good leg when she dropped it.

Phoebus left as quickly as he could, wishing he'd suggested getting a dog instead, for then he'd get to see the creature bite the minister.

…………

"Stop," Claude commanded Gaetan, whom he had practice flipping the dagger from one type of grip to another. He slowly pushed her back with his crutch. When she was as far as he could push her, he pulled his crutch back and leaned it against the fence. "Now," he said, crossing his arms, "charge at me."

Gaetan stood where she was, wide-eyed and dumbfounded, and nearly dropped the dagger.

"I said 'charge at me' I did not give you that to play with. Now rush at me with the blade as I ordered!"

Gaetan took a deep breath and ran at him.

"Too slow," Claude yelled, grabbing his crutch from his side and smacking her with it. "Try again."

Gaetan backed up and tried again, this time faster.

"Your hand is too high!" Frollo yelled, catching her wrist and throwing her backwards nonchalantly.

Gaetan picked herself up and tried again, growing angrier. Claude smiled slightly. She was becoming more focused, more bloodthirsty. If he could hone that wolfen spirit in her, he could someday send her on his own path of chasing down the distant and unreachable fire of corruption within his city. She fixed her gaze on him and leapt at him this time, flinging her whole body into the attack.

Claude grabbed her wrist as she pulled it back to prevent from actually hitting him with one hand and punched her in the gut with the other. She went limp and fought hard not to scream or choke on blood as he slowly pushed her wrist down, forcing her arm to bend backwards against her elbow and shoulder joints. "You'd best conquer that fear you have of me. It will be far worse than this if you can't strike a killing blow. Your opponent will show you absolutely no mercy, which is the same reason why you will get none from me! The next time you hesitate, it will be far worse, and I warn you that I am very skilled at pain. If your life is in danger, theirs is forfeit, no exceptions, ever! Perhaps someday you will be lucky enough to take someone in alive, but it will never happen if you can't stay alive yourself!"

He released her arm and she spat up blood as she rubbed her pained shoulder. She stood up unsteadily and he bashed her down with his crutch before she could collect herself. He needed to bring her temper to a boil, to see her spirit rise like steam from underneath a human desire to hold back. There are chains that hold every person in place and it takes a slow and steady insanity to struggle free or a raging fire and a powerful hammer strike to tear them away in an instant. He could be the forge, tossing log after log on the fire, but she needed to smash those chains herself and he'd teach her to, no matter the cost.

She panted as she slowly rose to her feet; her breathing speeding up, threatening to build up into a raging roar rather than slow down for calm. She had managed the fierce, burning glare he wanted to see in her, but he still doubted she'd ever come close to what he needed in action. She stood up all the way, no longer caring about him, but thinking of how to hold her small and tired body, forcing every muscle into a compressed spring to go off at just the right moment. She wiped the dripping blood from her mouth, only smearing it across her chin, and finally attacked. Claude leapt off the fence as her hand brought the dagger down, lodging it deep in the wood of the fence.

Leaning on the post of the fence, he made his way around it so there was nothing between them. "Much better. Again."

Gaetan tore the dagger from the wood and spun at him, only to fall to the ground as her feet tangled around his crutch as he tripped her. "Watch your feet. Again."

She tried to rise on her still hurting shoulder, and was kicked in the face when it gave out. "Faster. Your opponent won't just be standing over you, doing nothing."

Gaetan pushed herself up by her good shoulder and glared, trying to crane her head to make eye contact. Never shifting her gaze, she shot her arm forward, aiming her dagger at his foot.

His crutch blocked the blade, but it had been stopped less than an inch away from his soft leather shoe. "We are getting ahead of ourselves now. A good strategy, but I want you to fight on your feet. Now get up and try again."

………………

Gaetan started to rise from the dirt, but Claude put his crutch on her injured shoulder lightly to stop her. He looked up at the sky. Lighting in the city was always dim, crude, and amounted to nothing outside. It was swiftly beginning to get dark and at a few high-noted chimes from the cathedral, he pulled the crutch away. "Enough. We should go back. Can you walk?"

Instead of answering, she slowly pushed herself up, wobbled for a moment and caught her footing. She was bloody, but only from superficial cuts. Mostly she was dirty, sweaty, tired, and dizzy. Her whole body ached, but overall her arm was feeling better.

Claude had never wanted to raise a child in the first place, even if it was his—he felt guilty on occasion that he could never bring himself to obey God's command to 'Go forth and multiply'—and he had already been forced not just to raise Quasimodo, but to try and connect with the boy as a friend. He never wanted to, and most often the boy's silly fancies bored him. He found the easiest way to raise a child was to raise it like a dog. He encouraged Quasimodo to be a rather independent one, so long as it knew where the fence was and he could have fun digging or carving or whatever and leave him alone. However, with Gaetan, he wanted a dog that would stay very close to him and copy his way of thinking. Either way, it was essential to reward as much as it was to punish. "Good boy," he told Gaetan. He smiled and ruffled her frazzled hair with his hand, petting her head softly.

Exactly as he hoped, she smiled and followed him home.


	7. Savages

**A destrier is a big huge warhorse.**

**Kampfringen is a European martial art that involved no weapons and 'Ringen Am Schwert' was armed close combat. All the teachers and masters were German, but there were many fechtbuchers (fight-books) and the style was all over Europe. Fior Di Battaglia means 'Flower of Battle' and is another book on fighting. **

………….

It was more than an hour after dinner when Gaetan opened the door of Claude's house.

"Sir—oh, thank God, it's you!" Phoebus exclaimed, trying to whisper.

"He's not seeing anyone right now," Gaetan said as Phoebus grabbed her by her arms. "Sir, I don't know where the horse is. I'm sure you can find it yourself eventually."

"What? No, I'm here to get you out of here."

"Why, sir?" she asked, yanking her arms away.

"You can't possibly want to stay here! Look, don't give me any of that 'I'd have to get married' stuff! He's insane!"

"You work for him."

"I'm a grown up."

"Then you'll be tried for stealing someone's apprentice."

"No I won't," Phoebus said. "Nothing's official yet. No papers have been signed and not even he can get around that one. He told you you could leave when you wanted, so I'm helping you."

"I don't want to leave."

"He's not nice!"

"Living on the street isn't nice."

"He hits you!"

"It'd be worse if I were arrested for stealing grass from the stables."

"You're dressed in rags!"

"I already was."

"You threw up today!"

"At least he feeds me real food."

"You mean you want to stay here?" he yelled. He wasn't going to get her out of here, so he didn't care if he was heard.

"I live in a real house. I get to eat more than once everyday. I sleep indoors. I can have a real bath now and then. I'm not in as much danger from strangers now that I'm not a woman anymore. Goodbye, sir."

"But—"

"Thank you, sir." Gaetan closed the door, ending the conversation. Forever, she hoped.

Claude stepped out of the washroom, already dressed in his robes, hose, and shoes. It was cold in a stone house, especially with wet hair. He shook his head to toss some of the water out of his grey hair before using a towel to dry it. "Who was at the door?"

"Captain Phoebus, Master."

"What could he possibly want? I hope he found that horse already."

"He wanted me to explain something to him."

Claude rolled his eyes and sighed. Was she improving or was Phoebus getting worse? He'd heard so much about the man's abilities and achievements in the war. "Go clean up," he told her. He figured that Phoebus must simply be having the same problems he was having, but lacked the opportunity to tell her to go away or stay out of sight as well as the skill to assume she'd deal with any problems she had on her own or tell him if she couldn't.

For instance, having her draw his bath hadn't been nearly the disaster he thought it would be because she simply stayed out of the washroom after the tub was filled and that was that. Skirting around each other was proving a lot easier than he'd initially thought.

It was convenient that she was so dismissible, both from his mind and from his rooms. It was too early to speak with her of his confusion over the gypsy and having to wrestle with it on his own felt like some sort of divine punishment.

Every time he closed his eyes, every time he tried to meditate, every time he tried to concentrate alone, all he got were bits of a twirling skirt, clangs of bangles striking each other, green eyes, hair like a soft black cloud, and a delicate hand twisting and turning in strangely saintly positions. He could have dealt with all those images. He could have managed to shoo them away or let them play themselves out until they had nothing new for him, but they were intermingled in other images, more frightening images. Long bare legs, oscillating hips, breasts straining to free themselves from tight fabric, the outline of a navel showing through a dress that flowed like sweat over her dark body.

If only these images could be separated from each other, not intertwined in a Gordian knot he was unable to strike through. Her hair was for a moment a shower of soft silken strands with the curling grace of incense smoke that wafted through church halls, only to transform into a thick viscous mass he could feel slipping over his fingers like boiling lead, the imaginary touch setting his nerves aflame in some strange desire to be lost in that molten, oozing mass. He'd burn, but he felt he'd revel in the fire, his loss of the physical nothing compared to what he'd gain in the sensual.

He could see his hand taking hers and she'd drop that tambourine in fright as he forced her to the ground and pinned her, easily defeating her in a struggle to force her to stop her witchcraft, but instead of nothing more than a clean and simple match of two combatants, he saw an erotic tackle and heard her soft, feminine screams and cries of defiance slowly ebbing into those of submission.

He had realized earlier that day that he had kept her scarf that she'd left on his neck during her dance that felt like a siren's song in bodily motion. Now he was tempted to find a way to destroy the evil talisman, but fear of what evil magic he'd release by doing so prevented him. It had to be witchcraft. There was no other explanation he could find. He knew what he was commanded to do with witches, but this was a sly trick that he could not so easily smother. He had no proof and announcing what she had done would make the city think he was insane. This was not a straightforward attack on him by the gypsies, and he was sure that if they'd gone to such lengths, no doubt they had booby-trapped their little trinket they used to cast it upon him. He could not openly try to purify it, he could not give it to another person for surely it would find it's way back to him and probably kill them in the process, he could not burn it, and he could not toss it away, lest doing so would bring him worse luck. If it weren't for the fact that she barely seemed to acknowledge him at all—for she had paused in her dance for a moment that day and stared at him, utterly shocked upon noticing him, but only to shrug and go back to her dancing soon after, seeing no guards around to arrest her—he would have considered the thing a familiar through which she was constantly spying on him.

"Lord take it, I am distracted tonight!" he yelled at himself just before he heard the door to the washroom open.

To his comfort, Gaetan was not only dressed, still wearing the bodies that hid any evidence that she was female, but paid him no attention and instead focused on drying her hair, which was resembling a giant overstuffed mop that had been used years past its usefulness.

If only all women were more like Gaetan he would be having no problems. No curves, dishwater eyes that looked at you instead of asking you to look at them, and even if they stood in front of you, you could banish them from your mind whenever you wanted. There had to be some way to keep himself safe in the same way from his gypsy tormentor.

"The gypsies!" he suddenly whispered, a thought suddenly dawning on him. "Come. Sit," he ordered, seating himself in a chair and gesturing to the floor next to him.

Gaetan dropped her towel to her shoulders and immediately went to him. He moved the stool himself with the end of his crutch and she immediately set herself on the floor next to his chair.

"You may speak freely, but stay on subject. Now, you were out on patrol with the captain today. What exactly was going on that would warrant needing more soldiers in order to keep the peace and handle arrests?"

Gaetan remembered the discussion with Phoebus in the alley earlier. She owed the man much for his favor, even if he thought he'd thrown her to the pigs. She also appreciated the chance to be talked to by someone who just wanted a simple conversation to pass the time and if he ever got over his silly thoughts he would probably be very interesting to listen to. But keeping secrets from her master was stupid, especially when it was about the goings-on in the city, given his job. "There were many groups of gypsies throwing rocks, master."

"At?" Claude asked. "You are beginning to speak like the captain and I advise you to stop it. For all I know, they were juggling."

"They were throwing rocks at each other from across the street, mostly, master. Some attacked each other. Other people were getting caught in the middle of the whole thing."

"The gypsies are attacking each other under broad daylight? This is highly unusual, given how they act. They are secretive, all thieves, tricksters, and liars. But they are not the kind to sacrifice one of their own to achieve their goals. This is most strange." Secretly, Claude wondered if Esmeralda's spell of distraction was purely to keep him from known his enemies' solidarity was crumbling.

"None of them wanted to explain what the fight was about. They just hated each other and kept trying to fight even after they were arrested."

"If only I knew what troubles were causing such things! Oh, their heathen Court of Miracles must look like the inside of my Palace of Justice. What I'd give to see it just for a second. But what in the world could cause dissension like this?"

"Master?"

"Yes, what is it?" It was obvious he had to explain something to her. Well, if she had any stupidity in her, it was best to tear that weed out immediately by the roots.

"What is a Court of Miracles?"

"Oh, such a lonely, ignored child you are," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. His white eyes glittered for she was just as eager to learn from him as he was to mold her mind into a copy of his own. "The Court of Miracles is a sinister, evil place. It is a hidden lair where every gypsy in Paris gathers together to share their stolen prizes and slaughtered trophies. I have searched for that place for twenty years and it is the one thing they would rather go to the gallows for than do more than speak its name. I have sent dozens of spies to find it and all have been found dead weeks later, each in a different part of the city. What? What is it?" he asked in annoyance, squeezing her shoulder. His words had had nothing close to the desired effect on her and she was looking at him the same way he looked at her when he first laid eyes on her, having trouble believing the inconceivable ridiculousness of what lay before her.

"It sounds like a fairytale, master," she said quietly, trembling in his grip. "It sounds like a lie, a trick to distract you. Even my grandmother heard of elves."

Claude did not want to admit the Court of Miracles had become an obsession of his, nor did he want to admit he'd never consider it clever rouse, let alone an age-old one that made him look like he was demanding how to get gold from unicorns when questioning prisoners. But he could feel her shivering in fear, waiting for his hand to strike her like a spider who had already caught a fly in his web, but took its time as she struggled. She had a cynical, untrusting mind, and yet she met his words with a growing hunger for them, as if she wanted to dig sharp claws into his mind and never let go until she had learned all there was within it.

He loosened his grip for a second, only long enough to let her know he was not about to strike. He needed her to recognize his approval at her efforts before he corrected her or only the lesson would take, but there would be no loyalty and without loyalty she would have too much free will, which would only lead to her asking the wrong questions and going against his ideals. He gripped her shoulder firmly, but gently, similar to how he had petted his horse. She had to feel the gesture of affection and yet feel the strength he had within him, just to tell her who was pack leader. "The Court of Miracles is real," he said, using one finger under her chin to make her see the adamancy in his eyes. "It is a part of Hell that cloaks itself somewhere in Paris. Not even God's hands can reach within. It is my duty to bring His Great Benevolence and Justice to it. If you are alive a week from now, you shall share the honor."

……………….

If Claude could have seen the Court of Miracles, he would have laughed. Although the Court of Miracles was decorated so colorfully it dimmed the great rose windows of the Cathedral during a bright and fiery sunset, there was no gaiety happening today. What were many small incessant quarrels yesterday was one giant riot tonight.

Clopin's business with Giselle had caused a split between his people, but being united by ties of marriage, families, and friendships, the rift was an invisible river constantly changing beds, separating one solid army into dozens of groups, each with a slightly different opinion, all angry amorphous masses of people who were constantly changing sides due to culturally inflicted bonds, thus each person changed their mind at least twice a day. Now it was unclear as to whether anyone remembered any allies or even bothered with them anymore, or even if they had their own opinions anymore. People were fighting each other from across the vast hall, screaming, shouting, striking anyone they could reach and having no fixed target, resorting to throwing anything they could get their hands on at the other side of the crowd.

Their king, the man all their debates stemmed from, was close to wishing Frollo would find their secret sanctuary and take them all away. It was not out of hatred, but out of desperation and several bruises and one burn from the crossfire.

"Enough!" Clopin screamed. "I didn't even know there were this many rocks in Paris! Giselle is out of the picture! There was no reason for you to fight before, and there certainly is no reason now! Am I the only one who knew that there were twelve arrests today? The new captain has called in more soldiers and I think Frollo's finally lost any sanity he ever had! He's appointed an apprentice!"

The screaming tempest of people silenced and stopped, like a storm standing still.

Personally, Clopin thought the old man was bored being unable to ride and hunt people down himself, so he'd found a little boy to torment literally to death and that he only called the child his apprentice so that no one could take his toy away.

The first reaction anyone had was to demand that the boy be killed immediately, choking the weed out before it took over the entire garden. Clopin's first reaction was to lay down the rule that no one was to kill the child. It would be the perfect excuse for Frollo to go around setting gypsies on fire in the middle of the street. Clopin's second reaction was to explain how the metaphor made no sense and was more strangled than anyone they'd ever hung on the gibbet. His third was to ask if anyone had ever even seen the child before.

The crowd was nearly silent, a soft rumble of whispers and mumbles shaking it throughout, making the crowd look like a bubble shaking before it popped. Rumors began to sprout and before they could bloom into superstition, they were clipped away by the king. Some thought the boy was conjured as a pact with the devil, a demon in disguise. Clopin complained that even if a demon had a reason to be so tiny and skinny and to have allowed something to eat its hair for an hour, why was Frollo spending all day torturing it, for he had heard of stories of the boy's lessons that day. Besides, witchcraft was what Frollo accused them of doing, not what they accused him of. Thinking like him would just get them all killed, Clopin reprimanded.

If magic was out, perhaps it was the boy of a soldier. But no parent seemed to claim the boy. None of the French townspeople recognized the boy and seemed just as surprised that Frollo had an apprentice.

There was a theory that would have had more merit if there was a lot less giggling and snickering throughout the discussion of the boy being Frollo's own child. The only woman Frollo had spent more than five minutes around was his cook and she was at least twenty years his senior, for she reminded him that she was his elder a few times in the past. By now Clopin was sure that the people giggling like schoolchildren were the ones who spurned the discussion on, so there was a lot of debate as to whether it was possible he had ever conceived a child no one ever saw before with a woman who by now must be a million years old (Clopin in his younger days had thought up a prank to 'celebrate' the judge's birthday, but he never even learned what century the man was born in and soon gave up). The giggling only got worse and to Clopin's dismay some comments were a bit lewder. Then it was pointed out that the woman had been married, widowed only three years ago and had since mourned her husband annually. Eventually Clopin had to sit and wait the giggling and by now limerick-chanting out and when everyone was out of breath he said that because it was such a humorous idea, Frollo couldn't possibly have done it because there was nothing funny about the man, unless you counted his hat.

The only rumor that was given the chance to divide, multiply, and evolve was that Frollo had taken the child from the orphanage, though no one could settle on a believable reason as to why that particular child when there were more strapping boys of the same age still there. Eventually the rumors would die once the gypsies got wind of the matron of the orphanage angrily yelling that she had no idea who the child was and people should stop asking why she let what was happening continue.

Clopin ended the meeting, reminding his subject that he'd personally deal with anyone who killed little children, even Frollo's, that they were a better people than the minister made them out to be and to save energy for fighting the soldiers, not each other. He sighed as most people resumed giggling and trying to make their rhymes dirtier than they already were.

Clopin sat down, dangling his legs over the gibbet stage and began to sulk. Frollo had called the gypsies vermin, dogs, rats, mongrels, jackals, and philistines. He wondered what kind of animal a philistine was, but he was sure Frollo was wrong; all those animals were organized.

Sure, they were a monarchy, but he listened to his people, every one of them, even the children. Their king was a poor man who talked to a puppet to make children laugh. He had wandered off at last year's Feast of Fools so drunk he could hardly walk and had forgotten his name drinks ago and was draped in the arms of a lady of the night, despite the fact that it was still day. When the hangover left he returned, having had one of the best nights he couldn't remember. It was a romance between a fugitive from the law, harboring thousands of other fugitives and with no money in his possession, and a woman who was lucky to have all her teeth and hair and unlucky enough to have a daughter she had unsuccessfully tried to drown and a job she had unsuccessfully tried to leave. It was a sorry state for a sorry bunch of people. But that didn't give them an excuse to act like violent four-year olds…well, worse than that because Clopin had been able to control violent four-year olds to some extent a few times.

"Have you ever heard the story of the four ravens?" a female voice said behind him.

"Esmeralda!" Clopin exclaimed happily and leapt to his feet. Esmeralda's voice suggested good news and at least he could see her goat perform a trick or two and he'd be able to pet it before he felt he had to return to moping. "That's some sort of English story, I think. I have enough trouble figuring out how anyone liked these French ones."

"Something about a king who had children. A sorceress changed herself to remind him of his long lost wife and she married him. He was so in love with her, he couldn't stop her from turning his children into birds."

"I take it this wasn't because she wanted pets."

"The king was the only person who she didn't use magic to change."

"Wouldn't it have been easier?"

"But then it wouldn't be true love, and true love can break any magic spell. You know that."

He sighed. "Sometimes I doubt it."

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Esmeralda, sometimes I trust you more than I trust myself. You're a wonderful friend and so far you're the only person who has had no problems about Giselle other than sharing worries about how I'm going to get her money and you've completely avoided siding with any group of crazies." He sniffled and Djali butted him from behind. "I said person!" he yelped, rubbing his behind.

"I may have a plan."

"I don't think turning me into a bird will help. Not for long."

"Not you. And not for real," she said. She put both hands on his shoulders and her voice became serious. "I can't tell you, but I need you to trust me. No matter what, just trust me." Every time she spoke like that, there was a knife-like quality to her voice. Those who didn't know her well were often afraid they'd actually be stabbed.

Politics never came between them. They talked to each other as equals and treated each other as such. Good or bad, they treated each other's choices in life as nothing more than that: not a representation of the community or some ideal to uphold. His only concern over who she slept with was whether or not he had to chase them with torches and pitchforks later and her only reaction to him losing Giselle was to comfort his broken heart. "I trust you Esmeralda. I trust that whatever you're doing, you'll tell me when you're really in trouble."

"Thank you," she said. "I will, I promise. But don't do anything before then. No matter what!"

"Should I be worried already?"

"No, you shouldn't. Don't worry Clopin. Some day your prince will come."

"I hope you're—wait, I thought I was the prince!"


	8. Baby Mine

Gaetan was up before the dawn each day. Claude would leave Gaetan to learn riding, which was at first falling and later was something too scruffy and undignified to appear to be riding compared to the captain, but not quite staying on the horse, while the minister led his destrier around. He tied an end of a rope to the reigns and the other end to the fence. With his master around, the horse calmly walked in circles, trying to urge Claude to ride by nudging the man with his nose. "I understand, boy," Claude would say. "But I can't. Stop it." The gypsies had hired spies to watch the man and the child. As much as the gypsies wanted to cite Frollo as having gone absolutely batty, talking to his horse did not quite qualify since he never expected it to reply. As much as they thought he couldn't even bear the touch of the stuff, feeding chunks of sugar to the creature didn't qualify either.

Later Gaetan would return, constantly thrown and beaten down while trying to fight him. Through wrestling, daggers, pins, grapples, punches, and swinging a short stick—Phoebus still insisted she wasn't ready for a sword, but in truth he wasn't ready for the amount of chaos he'd have to deal with if he did give her one—the gypsies were unsure as to whether or not Frollo was training or trying to kill the boy.

The native French noticed as well. They nicknamed the boy Chiot—'puppy'—for Frollo would send the boy away with the captain and he would dutifully return to his master's side. Frollo would knock the boy down to the ground, sometimes hitting him for not rising soon enough and each time the boy would try to follow his master's orders and when the sun began to set, the two would walk home, the boy eagerly following at his master's side. Everyone began to swear it was the truth that he'd once said 'Good dog' to the boy. It was obvious that no creature ever before ever loved his master as little Chiot.

The gypsies had also nicknamed the boy: 'Malarrimo', meaning 'bad arrival' or 'close to danger,' for surely he meant something ominous, despite his appearance. Was Frollo building an army? Would the boy ever master whatever any of his training was, and if so, would that mean they would have two sinister, unbeatable enemies to contend with? Was Frollo taking to beating children by the barracks for fun or punishment?

The questions of how to deal with Frollo's new apprentice, whatever his ambitions for the boy were, echoed secretly throughout the Court of Miracles. This time, the river of mistrust was not so fickle. The river slowly etched a canyon, deeper and deeper between the people on either side. Every week a gypsy would say farewells and sever ties as they felt was the best way. Some in anger, some in disdain, some even in pity. Everyone on either side knew that someday the river would become apparent, coursing with blood that may even reach the upper streets of Paris. This was war. It was a secret war, a guerilla revolution to explode from under the feet of their ignorant king.

Previously, every decision Clopin had made when it came to Giselle had started a new argument. There were always two separate sides, one claiming right and one claiming wrong and then it was four when he made a new decision and the opinions mixed but the people separated. To wander off with a native French was a betrayal out of drunken stupidity or it was a need to add new blood to their clan's kingship. To return was idiocy and stirred thoughts of selling secrets to the enemy or it was love to be swooned over and defended. The fact that she was a prostitute was spat at or admired. The child was a mistake of following animal instincts for too long or a promised new ruler for his people. Giselle's abandonment was deserved punishment or a sad and tragic ending.

Distrust and patriotism were slowly pulling away from each other like curds and whey. But although it was a woman that had incited their split, it would be a boy that the two would fight over, each wholly united against each other. Solomon's Israel was lost, portended by the king demanding a child would die. The great nation of the gypsies in Paris would be lost over a child the king demanded would live.

…………….

Gaetan was sent to church early Sunday morning with a note she couldn't read, a basket with unknown contents, and the same green clothes she'd been wearing since she began her trial apprenticeship.

She had tried to mend the vest once, but Claude had ripped them from her hands hard enough to sting. He tore the stitches apart, shouting that he would not stand for her to wear such shoddy workmanship while in his house and that the mending was worse than the holes.

She sat in the backmost pew and waited out the long and boring sermon. It was just a long diatribe on being afraid of God. She already knew God had sent her a great many things to be afraid of and had done so for years. She felt she was the last person who needed reminding.

The sermon ended hours later and people filed past her, some glancing at the note Frollo had pinned to her front. Occasionally, she would glance down to see if she could understand any of it, or if there was a stain on the letter, but to her it was a piece of paper with frilly scribbles and it refused to be anything else.

Gaetan jumped as a hand fell on her shoulder. She wasn't as relieved as the archdeacon had hoped when she noticed who was next to her. He led her halfway around the cathedral and opened a door to a long spiraling flight of stairs. Her only instructions she had already received were to listen to the archdeacon and that someone would begin her lessons on how to read and write. The archdeacon did nothing to clear things but, merely telling her to go all the way up the stairs and to 'please be kind to him' With that, Gaetan was shooed onto the staircase and the door was softly closed behind her.

For a moment, Gaetan stood on the stairs and wondered about her situation. To her, the cathedral was giant and scary. It was a huge tomb with windows that let in images of people dying and suffering or condemning or ignoring, but never any significant amount of light. The halls echoed and smelled like someone trying to cover the smell of a corpse with dried flowers. The chants were morbid and the building gave her the impression that it was a deadly labyrinth with the monsters her mother had told her of, waiting to take her away and enchant her. Last she checked, notes from ministers didn't stop spirits.

She steeled herself and forced herself to climb the stairs. The staircase was the darkest part of the church she'd ever seen. The nave and the chapel were already dark enough, with no light from outside because of the thick winter clouds. The candles only burned away the darkness within inches of themselves and the transept was even darker, having fewer windows and fewer candles. Here, there were no windows and no candles. All she could do was wonder how far up she was going and what there was at the end of the staircase.

The higher she went, the more she wanted to turn around and leave, and the more afraid she was that she would and what would happen to her next. "Hello?" she began to call out. She heard no answer and kept walking, remembering she still had a dagger, but also remembering she wasn't much good at using it.

At last she came to the end of the stairs. To her surprise, the stairs ended in an anticlimactic giant attic—at least that was the best she could make of it all. "Hello?" she called out again. For a long time she heard nothing but dust falling.

Something moved in the darkness. Gaetan held the basket close, wondering if she should draw the dagger. Trembling, she turned and walked in the opposite direction.

The floor gave way to a set of rafters just ahead and from the ceiling hung giant, monstrous bells, but it was all hidden in the darkness. Gaetan froze as she finally noticed the giant cone of iron before her. The size of the bell was so intimidating she failed to notice the floorboards stop and that there was air below half her foot. From far away, the bell would ring a bemusing tone, threatening impatient and imposing silence in a call to piety. But up close it was a giant monster, a demon lying in wait, teeth glinting high in the darkness of the cone. Her mother had never sugar-coated the stories and she remembered that such things reveled in bone-crushing, flinging glistening pieces of gore as far as they could throw them, and of keeping their prize alive as they devoured them.

Something heavy hit her shoulder and she screamed. She closed her eyes and tried to step back out of the thing's grasp. She spun on her heel, but suddenly there was nothing underneath her feet. She fell underneath the great maw of the bell…and stopped.

Realizing she wasn't being tortured by any demons or smashing her head on anything hard, Gaetan opened her eyes.

A large, strong hand hauled her out of the darkness and set her gently on the floor near a candle while another set the basket down as well. Before her eyes acclimated to candlelight, the hand holding her tore off the paper pinned to her front.

"Who are you?" both she and her rescuer asked.

They both just stared at each other and took in the sight of the other, shocked that there was someone else here. Gaetan was covered in scratches and bruises from her training sessions. Her clothes were no longer the soft grassy greens they had started out as, but were mottled in several types of dirt, dust, dried blood, and horse spit. Several parts were ripped and the holes were growing bigger. Her clothes were adequate, but in far worse shape than those of the man before her. Her hair hadn't improved in shape and the erratic way it tried to part itself had just made it worse than before. The fact that she was small and looked like she could almost fit through a closed doorway sideways added to her appearance of someone who'd been lost under a rug for months.

The bell ringer hoped the note would explain where this strange boy had come from and why he was here, especially since he had not seen his foster father for days.

Gaetan's mind had conjured images of monsters and wraiths seeking out living flesh to feast on. At first, the candlelight splitting everything into deep shadows and bright hellish light scared her, lighting up a strange face and setting odd eyes aglow. But watching the side of the bell and seeing its side lit up in a giant reflection of the tiny flame, it looked like a portal to Hell itself and the stranger in front of it did not manage to qualify as one of its evil spirits in looks. As her eyes adjusted, the candlelight grew softer and so did the strange man's features. Though he was taller than her, as were all the men she had come to know, he was rather short, his back hunched downwards at the shoulders and at first he seemed awkwardly stooped down to try and look her in the face. His face was misshapen to say the least; he had a crooked jaw line and a strangely formed nose. His eyes were large and green and she could see nothing bestial within them, but she wondered how well he could see anything. Above one was a large lump, which pushed its way down partway over one of his eyes. The other was assaulted by his bangs of dark red hair; there didn't seem to be a strand that had no intention of staying in that part of his face, even when he tried to wipe them away to read her mystery note.

"My name is Quasimodo," he said, discarding the note. He picked up the candle and the basket and started to turn to walk away from the bells. "You shouldn't be afraid of me, especially if master Frollo sent you."

"My name is Gaetan," she whispered, instantly clinging to his large arm and casting a fearful glance at the giant bell.

"The bells will not hurt you either," he said, smiling. The letter had been a strange one. Frollo had said that he couldn't visit for a while due to an injury and he had been forced to hire an apprentice. Aside from his master wanting him to teach the boy to read, that was all. Quasimodo had barely a clue what an apprentice was, but the letter said his father hoped the two of them might one day become companions—so long as the boy's 'proved himself to be skilled enough.' This meant the only thing he could learn of the whole situation was from the boy himself.

"You live here?" Gaetan asked, staring at the darkness and the statues and the dust.

"I never leave," Quasimodo answered. "My master does not allow it. He says that this way I'm safe from unkind people outside."

Gaetan stopped following and stood still.

To her, his words meant a chance at relief and relaxation in her tiring week and she was shyly trying to find a way to grab the opportunity. To Quasimodo, he had just said something wrong.

"I mean, other than you," Quasimodo said. "Master Frollo wouldn't send any random person here. You must be a very kind boy, I'm sure."

"That's kind of a lie," Gaetan said, and suddenly regretted it. She winced, imagining the large man's anger at the words.

Instead, her only answer was defense rather than offense. She opened her eyes as he said "But my master would never lie to me."

"I didn't mean to…I mean…it's more of a secret than a lie," Gaetan said, hugging herself. She shouldn't have opened her mouth just because she wanted to open her chest restraint. "I'm a girl." She suddenly wondered if Quasimodo would possibly be as accommodating as she had initially hoped. She was, after all, lost in the dark with him and somewhere back there were those horrible bells and the floor was missing. There were a million things he could do, angered just as many men would be over a young girl impersonating one of them. 'This must be what it's like to be Phoebus,' she thought.

"It said 'boy' on the note," Quasimodo said. He was wondering why she was so upset.

"That's in case anyone else read it," she said. She had no idea what the note had said and at one point wondered if it was a list of groceries or chores for her. "No one's supposed to know… I just thought that if you were all alone, you wouldn't tell anyone else. Or care…at least at first."

"You don't look like a girl," Quasimodo said. He'd never been good at conversations, even with things that weren't supposed to talk back.

"I can prove it…I mean, I need something to change behind. Unless you'd rather I was a boy."

Quasimodo gave her a very confused look. Even he, practically living in a cave, didn't think gender could be dealt with like lighting a candle or blowing it out. "I'd prefer you were whatever it is you really are. It would be a lot less confusing." He gestured for her to follow her. "Why is it a secret?"

"Women aren't supposed to dress like this," Gaetan said, stepping behind a curtain Quasimodo gestured to. Behind it was a makeshift bed, hidden away from the rest of the dusty attic. She quickly undressed, heaving a sigh and breathing easier after taking the bodies off, then she began to throw the rest of her clothes back on. She was actually thankful she never inherited her mother's hips—or any other curved anatomy—which her mother constantly scolded her over. She had no hope of getting married as a girl and she certainly wasn't going to get married as a man. At least now it would be her choice. Not that anyone else would ever want to ask her what that choice would be. "They aren't supposed to do men's work. It's a rule somewhere. I'm not sure where its from, but it's important."

Quasimodo could in fact remember exactly where the rule came from, but he'd always thought it was only for people wandering around where there was a lot of sand.

"Women aren't allowed to be apprentices, either," she said, moving the curtain aside as she stepped out. "Unless we want to learn sewing or…other stuff." She had no idea what women apprentices learned, but she knew they still did 'women's work.' She also knew that she was incompetent at anything relating to cloth. The best she could do was wear her clothes the right way around or tie knots.

"You don't look much different," Quasimodo said. She didn't look any different and wouldn't unless her shirt got wet or was blasted against her chest by the wind.

"Even if it's not much, I'm not supposed to look like this at all. Thank you, though."

Quasimodo shrugged. To him, gender just said what shape a wooden doll should be and he never thought much of it beyond that. Apparently, he wasn't going to understand it any further, so it was probably best to give up and ask Frollo when and if he ever returned. "What exactly is an apprentice?"

"It's someone you teach your job to," Gaetan said. She noticed the shadows weren't so harsh now and began to relax. "When you're not teaching them, they do chores and in exchange, you give them food and a warm bed and clothes."

Quasimodo was actually somewhat relieved, though he didn't want to admit it to himself. He wasn't one for jealousy, but he was often prone to envy. The difference being he never really tried to take something from someone, but he did wish that the things other people had weren't forbidden to him. He couldn't care less about jewels or rich clothes or horses. He did, though, long to go outside and talk to people without repercussions. At first he'd felt slightly threatened that Frollo had taken in another boy, but he realized now that his own accommodations were free. He had asked for the bells and a reason to go down in the church. He could have stayed even more reclusive than he already was and never done any chores within the cloisters and left the bells silent and prey to dust.

Then again, having a brother was a nice thought…and a sister was practically the same thing.

"Well, this isn't going to eat itself," he said, holding up the basket. "Come, I can show you some things…that is, if you're interested."

"There aren't more bells up there, are there?" Gaetan asked.

"No more bells, I promise," Quasimodo said, picking up the candle. He motioned to the ladder and she smiled, following him as he led the way. "You'll get used to them someday. I promise."

…………….

Many people were thinking they liked Sundays. Quasimodo had been given a gift of a foster sibling, something he never dared dream of. She was impressed, but not much interested in his dolls. She made up for it, though, by her intrigue of wanting to read after he told her a few Bible stories and so long as no bells or gargoyles loomed directly overhead, she could slowly be taught to climb amongst the church decorations. She loved listening to him and as he never stopped her from saying what she wanted, she was surprised there was no anger anymore because he truly felt they were equals. She felt herself thinking the same thing.

Phoebus appreciated the fact that the riots had died down and with most people in their homes, all he did was get a cat out of a tree and he'd been lucky enough to have the cat actually be docile. The cat turned out to belong to Jacques, though, which made the job a lot more uncomfortable. Embarrassed as he was over having to technically undress partially by taking off his armor in front of the doctor, and that the cat was named Apollonia, he decided it was a still a disaster-free day.

Claude was having a worthwhile day himself, deciding that later on he'd teach Gaetan about laws and punishments as he went over the paperwork of what to do with the gypsies in the Palace of Justice. He figured that if he just put them together in one cell they would fight on their own and do his work for him. Later, when his leg was better and he could watch from a distance, he could let them out and see how confused they were and laugh at them.

He was also happy that he'd set up his apprentice and Quasimodo as playmates. Raising children really was like raising dogs. The two of them could entertain each other and all he had to do now and then was watch over the playpen to make sure they never escaped. He chuckled, imagining one of them bringing him a dead squirrel.

Children really were puppies, just without fleas, thank The Good Lord. He'd gone back on his word about the bed, telling her it was barbaric to sleep on the floor and that he'd already bought her enough things. This way he could also blame her if there was anything he found 'odd' with using another person for warmth and he never had to admit that was his original motivation. The thought of having to possibly share rooms with strangers had kept him from traveling out of Paris his whole life, but now he wondered why he'd never bought himself a cat or two for the winter nights. Puppies, cats, children…same thing, but with different training and children needed clothes because they had no fur. Jacques shared the bed with his kitten; he could share his with his puppy, and dogs did seem to enjoy sleeping at the feet of their masters.

…………..

One person was not enjoying Sundays and never had. Clopin detested Sundays because no one would come to see a puppet show on a religious day. God takes one day off to relax and for some reason no one else can have any fun every seventh day. As far as Clopin was concerned, God should have taken longer to create the world. There would be fewer days people would waste in church, he wouldn't be so bored, and it was all wrong anyway and God was long overdue to start fixing it.

This Sunday was the worst and best Sunday he'd ever had. Giselle had left him a present, heartwarming and sad. The baby was wrapped in an ugly blanket that was badly decorated by little baby… somethings, probably what a crossbreed between a donkey and a weasel looked like. It had been strung up on one of the beams of his puppet stand and was sleeping soundly, even as he took it down to hold it.

Fatherhood was indeed a wonderful thing, Clopin decided, holding the sleeping baby boy. There was something about holding the tiny thing in his arms and pressing it close that made his heart beat faster. Something so helpless was utterly dependent upon him for everything now, and was his, truly his. To him, it was a sweet, adorable, tiny thing created purely out of his and Giselle's love.

To an completely unbiased observer to whom neotony had no effect, or perhaps just a doctor who'd been up for more than an entire day and preferred his little kitten and wasn't amused when it had run up a tree due to the mother's screams, the baby looked like a giant potato. The coneheadedness of the newborn had worn off and it was no longer red and gooey.

As happy as Clopin was to see his own child, whom he thought was the cutest one he'd ever seen despite having known it for one minute while it was asleep, he was suddenly filled with sorrow. Giselle had left the child here, hoping he'd find it in time before someone else and had run back to her horrible job in her horrible room to horrible loneliness. His job had barely provided enough money to feed himself, and even without any luxuries whatsoever, he stole half of his food. He had a bit of string, half a dried sausage, and a pebble he'd found in his shoe in his possession and along with the baby, it was the most he ever had all week, unless he counted Giselle.

"Esmeralda, I could sure use that prince you—that's it!" he exclaimed, smiling. "I'll name you Prince. You're going to be respected and that's that. Besides, it's a happy name. None of this depressing stuff; it's not right for children."

Even though it had no clue as to what his father was saying, Prince chose that moment to wake up. Then he chose that moment to scream.

"Whoa!" Clopin yelped. "Yes, nice set of lungs you have."

The baby pulled at the fringe on his shirt, jingling the bells.

"I get it. I don't have those. Would you mind waiting for—I guess not. I'm hungry too; let's go see if we can't find a way to make you quiet again."


	9. Go the Distance

Quasimodo sat on the railing of his own personal balcony and stared at the stars and felt that they were his own personal things as well. Why not? He had his own personal friend and his own personal happiness for once. Just as the stars tried to twinkle out the purple darkness around him, he tried to hold onto his feeling of contentedness and elation and drive away a worry that had found its way into his head at such an inconvenient time.

He didn't turn around as could hear the cacophonous banging of his friends approaching. They were loud, quarrelsome, and went where they pleased and still he seemed to be the only person who ever thought they were alive.

"Well, it certainly seems you've found yourself a little…well, a little something," Victor said happily.

"Emphasis on little," Laverne said. "Any smaller and she'd be knocked around by his figurines."

"Yeah, and she's so skinny, if she held her arms out, she'd look like the cross with a bird's nest on top!" Hugo joked.

"She's nice," Quasimodo said, trying to prevent any real insults.

"Nice?" Hugo asked. "That's it? 'Nice' is what you say about… well, I guess she's not your type."

"She's no one's type!" Laverne yelled, smacking Hugo's head. "She's what, three?"

"Thirteen," Quasimodo answered quietly.

"Close enough!" Laverne yelled. "Try any of that and she will be scared of you!"

"So where'd you find her?" Hugo persisted, nudging Quasimodo with his elbow. The bell ringer tried to scoot away, already disturbed by the previous insinuations and not wanting to hear more. "A box of crackers? Maybe you can try again and find a hot blonde!"

"Master Frollo hired her. He was hit in the knee and he needed her to do his work for him," Quasimodo said, hoping to hint that there was a potential problem.

"Well, I don't have any knees and I can get my work done. Maybe these pigeons will land on him, now," Laverne complained, grabbing a bird in emphasis and throwing it. The bird woke up immediately and flew back to its roost.

"Good thing he didn't hit his head, huh? You could have wound up with a lousy goldfish!" Hugo said.

"Whatever his reasons are, I'd say this is rather nice of him," Victor said.

Quasimodo had always been annoyed at how the gargoyles could carry on conversations with him without him.

"I'm worried about her!" Quasimodo shouted.

"I don't see why," Victor said.

"Probably that she'll get stuck in the cracks in the street," Hugo said.

"She said Frollo would get rid of her if he got angry with her." Quasimodo said, his voice a whisper at first and growing steadily louder. "I may never see her again! She kept saying something about how she might not come back but didn't seem to want to talk about it. I'm worried about her!"

Laverne shoved Hugo away to make her way closer to Quasimodo. "He's gonna be off his knee for a while if he hit it badly enough to need someone else to do his job for him, isn't he? Usually he just comes back the next day and yells about stuff," she cajoled, patting his knee.

"She has a point," Victor said, holding Hugo in a headlock and covering his mouth while the other gargoyle flailed and struggled to get free.

"I don't understand what it is," Quasimodo said.

"He's lucky he found her, even if she has to be a he," Laverne said. "I sure wouldn't wash his windows, no matter what he hurt. If he gets rid of her, he's got to find someone else or start getting off his bony butt!"

"Did she say how long she had already worked for him?" Victor asked, letting go of Hugo and setting a friendly hand on Quasimodo's arm.

"She said it's been four days so far," Quasimodo answered. "Why?"

"I'm sure if she's spent that long with him and neither of them has decided to call it off or kill the other one, she's craftier than she looks. She's bound to be back. I don't think she'd have it any other way. You're all she's got. She's lucky to have you, boy." Laverne poked Quasimodo's side to emphasize her point.

"And he's lucky he didn't get a goldfish!" Hugo complained, loudly. "I hate those things."

……………

Two more days passed and Gaetan's week was up.

The previous night had been spent in uncomfortable silence. Claude had decided to let her prepare for the morning by herself and ignored her as she stood terrified in a corner while he finished reading his new book.

She kept her eyes fixed on him the whole time and tried to back away into her corner further as he closed his book and stood up. "I'm sure you can remember how important tomorrow is," Claude said, gently setting his book down on the table and gathering his crutches. "If you live past the morning I finally sign your papers. I know what you're thinking, and I'd actually get some sleep if I were you. Don't worry. I'll wake you up before we start."

Gaetan fell to the floor and hugged her knees. Strategy, planning, fighting… she had barely learned any of them. She'd never touched him in their fighting sessions. How was she going to stop him from besting her in a fight to the death? Despite his words, she tried to fight off sleep, only to fail, just as she knew she'd fail by the dawn.

She was not as weak as she thought, though, for she leapt to her feet as she heard his door close.

"I hope you're prepared," Claude mused, drawing a dagger. "I should warn you: running won't save you."

Immediately Gaetan ran for the door, ignoring his words.

But he was there in an instant, slamming his crutch loudly across the wood. She skidded to a halt and turned to flee in the opposite direction, desperate for more speed as he dropped the crutch and reached for her, flipping the dagger in his other hand to bring it down.

He grabbed her shoulder and his hand shot down her arm, twisting it and pinning it behind her back.

She fought the urge to close her eyes or cry as the dagger bore down. She tried to struggle free, but to no avail. She thought she was going to die, she knew she was going to die, but when the blade tore at her skin, she felt something burning in her as if her whole body had been set on fire. She was suddenly numb to everything, to the pain, to the fear, to the floor beneath her, to any danger at all and her hand shot up and grabbed his wrist.

She managed to surprise him enough to shove the dagger away from her neck, but he soon began to fight her, his strength greater than her adrenaline-borne ferocity and in the shaking fight between them he began to gain ground.

She threw herself backwards bodily, her elbow smashing into him sharply. The dagger was gone and his hand released her as he swung his hands to steady himself from the blow. Gaetan used that moment to bring her hands together in one giant fist and spun to strike him with all her seemingly unnatural and unholy might.

She knocked him into the wall and his injury prevented him from stopping himself from sliding to the floor. Gaetan could hardly see through her furious haze and barely recognized him now, but he was the only target she had. She tore the dagger from her belt so fast it almost slipped from her hand and raised it above her head, ready to strike.

But with the immediate danger gone, reality began to ebb its way back into her mind. She suddenly realized what she was about to do and she was overwhelmed with terror, this time with no saving grace to help her. She took a step back and dropped her weapon, bringing her hands to her mouth as she began to cower. She felt she was going to cry once she heard her punishment for trying to kill him in her fury.

"Don't you dare think of apologizing!" he screamed, poking her with his remaining crutch. "Or I will have you whipped before I do kill you. If you're going to prove your usefulness finally there is no point in throwing it away. I'm signing your papers tonight; don't do anything stupid in the meantime."

Gaetan began to pant, trying to catch her breath which she hadn't noticed she held in. She was so relieved she thought she might faint.

"I need you to be prepared to fight with spirit like that at any moment if I'm going to send you out on patrol, and never to forget that. From now on the only thing you have to worry about as your life is concerned from me is if you break the law." Seeing that his words had the desired effect of both reassurance and threat and the two were understood properly, he smiled momentarily. "Go clean up. You can go buy breakfast somewhere; I want to send you out as soon as possible."

Gaetan nodded proudly and said nothing. She didn't look at him as she walked past him and closed the door.

Claude reached for his fallen crutch. He stretched him arm as far as he could, but it was still a foot away. Almost cursing, he leaned forward, concentrating on his balance and his leg, only to suddenly pull back as the door burst open and the crutch was thrown across the floor in the commotion.

"Where is she?" Phoebus screamed, panting and poised with his sword. The man stopped in confusion and looked around, finally spotting Frollo on the floor. He already thought the man was crazy and there was too much at risk already so he didn't bother asking.

"Do you need some sort of alarm to wake you up, Phoebus?" Claude complained. "You're too late to do anything."

Angrily, Phoebus brought his sword back, growling at the minister.

Claude slipped the head of his crutch under Phoebus's legs, then yanked it close. The T of the crutch caught Pheobus's foot and knocked the man over as he tried to bring the sword down.

"Phoebus, would I be having trouble getting up from a clean floor if she were dead?"

"Knowing you, I didn't care," Phoebus said, standing up. "But I wish you'd tell me things like that earlier."

"I've been around you for too long. Have you been drinking?"

"No, I've been worrying," Phoebus said. Drinking implied fun, not losing sleep over imagining his superior murdering helpless kids.

"Well, don't 'worry' about such cheap stuff. It smells like your horse urinated on you." Claude tried, very unsuccessfully, to stand with one crutch. "Hand me that crutch. I'm actually glad you're here," he said, with no intonation in his voice that actually implied he was happy at all.

"Okay, now I'm scared," Phoebus said, slowly going for the crutch across the floor. "Did you hit your head?

"I'm sending her out on patrol, after a short debriefing. I want you to tell the soldiers."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'" Phoebus said, reluctantly handing over the crutch.

"How small of words do I have to say this in?" Claude asked, pushing himself up while trying to push away from Phoebus's offered hand for help. "Don't touch me first off."

"I can get that one, sir!" Phoebus said, pulling his hand away. "But—"

"I may not have had much success at it, but I've been avoiding your protests all week. I don't want to hear them now. She's going to be in my place until I return. I want her to get to work immediately; I'm not running a day care or a university. I trust her, and I am giving you an order, those together should be enough for you."

"They are, I'm just—this is a bit of a shock."

"She won't be arguing over it," Claude said stepping away from Phoebus,

"That's because she's weird—" Phoebus realized that Gaetan had been listening in on their conversation and only noticed after Frollo moved. "I should go."

"Yes, you should. I'm not entertaining guests now," Claude said.

"I don't think you could ever entertain anyone ever," Phoebus said and let himself out. He paused on the stairs, still trying to take in the gravity of the situation. It was like being lost inside a giant pink cloud. It was ridiculous and the fact that it was real made it frightening, not funny. Most of him still refused to accept it as true.

"Ah, good. I want to speak with you," Claude said, bending down and patting Gaetan's hair. "You're going to be doing real work now, so I want no dawdling and no slacking, you hear me?"

"Yes, master."

"You're in charge and I want you to act like it at all times. Your duty is to keep the peace, which means no holding back in any situation."

"I'll do my best, master."

"Don't do that, do what I would do," Claude said, shoving a few coins into Gaetan's hands. "I want to hear every detail of your day so you can improve at what you're most lacking in. And get a haircut, it looks like a trod upon cabbage. Now go on, meet up with the captain when you're done and don't bother with anything else, I'll handle it."

"Yes, master."

"Chin up. You really do have no idea how much you've earned today." Claude's hand gently patting her back didn't reassure her as much as he thought it did.

………….

"As you all know, Frollo has hired an apprentice," Phoebus told the troops. "This morning he decided that Gaetan—okay, fine, Chiot, sheesh, can't you remember names?—has graduated from training and the boy is officially standing in for the minister. Would you all stop giggling?"

The entire troupe of soldiers did exactly that. They burst into roaring laughter so hard they needed the help of their polearms or friends to keep from falling over.

"Do you mind?" Phoebus yelled.

Apparently they did. He leaned against the wall of the garrison, waiting for everyone to start asphyxiating or give up.

"I'm waiting," Phoebus said. "No one's leaving until I finish."

Eventually the laughing quieted, though never truly died

"Yes, haha, I get it. Get it out of your systems now, because if you say it to his face it's not just him you'll be answering to but Frollo as well and he's already feeling worse than usual."

The room was suddenly very quiet.

"Good." Phoebus said. "Now, I'm still your captain, but you report to him. If you have a complaint, I'm sure the boy will gladly bring the message to his master who will sort things out immediately. And don't stand there confused, you're soldiers! Start acting like it!"

Phoebus left the troops to be shocked and confused on their own. 'And Frollo thinks I'm behaving improperly over Gaetan…' Phoebus thought.

He was just in time to find her mounting one of the horses she'd taken from the stables. "Nice haircut," he said, hoping to start smoothing things over.

Gaetan shrugged. Her hair had been neatly trimmed into a pristine set of bangs halfway down her forehead and the rest fell to the tips of her ears. Then the hair had figured out the trick and set to work at flying everywhere at once. Gaetan seemed to be born with an aura of scruffiness. Armor would develop creases if she wore it.

"I'll be right back," Phoebus said, and went to get Achilles from the stables. "Oh, no," he muttered loudly, riding out of the stables and finding Jacques waving at him. Why couldn't people wait in line and take numbers to give him a bad day instead of all trying at once? "What could you possibly—what in Hell happened?" Jacques was half-dragging a very unhappy man with a bloody bandage over one eye behind him.

"I'd tell you not to take the Lord's name in vain, but that's hardly the worst I've heard. Especially all day!" The last part he was loudly directed at the injured man, who just groaned. Jacques turned to Gaetan, and smiled. "Nice haircut. See, you're getting used to that horse already! I heard somewhere it's just like having sex." Jacques paused.

Phoebus wanted to cry.

"It is?" Gaetan asked.

"No, it's not!" Phoebus yelled.

"So, what's it like?" she asked innocently.

"I am not explaining that to you!" Phoebus screamed. Now he wanted to cry and run away.

"Can I go to jail now?" the injured man complained.

"I meant horseback riding."

"It's like riding a donkey, only bigger," Phoebus grumbled.

"But then, if it is, how exactly did Frollo hurt himself so much learning to ride?" Jacques asked himself.

"Can I please go to jail?" the man wailed desperately.

Phoebus wanted to join him there and cry. Forever.

"Well this is what you get when you try to rob me!" Jacques yelled at the man, who actually did cry. "It's not like I've done either, so you shouldn't take it to heart," Jacques said to Gaetan, then turned to Phoebus. "Well, at least one saying is true." Jacques pointed at the man next to him, who was cringing, frightened of another horrible bit of insight. "It's not like I knew those scissors would hit him in the eye. You can arrest him now."

"Yeah, about that… You gotta talk to him about that one," Phoebus said, nodding in Gaetan's direction.

"Him?" Jacques asked. Then he remembered the whole fiasco that was the reason she was a he. "Oh, right! Wait..."

"Not this again," Phoebus whined. Now he understood how Frollo felt.

"You're in charge?" Jacques asked Gaetan who by now seemed to want to bore a hole into him with her gaze. "Look, you're a smart kid to have lived this long with that guy and you seem to have cured yourself of being rather gravity prone, but maybe you should tone it down a bit."

"I was told not to do that," Gaetan said, as steely as she could.

Jacques backed away and looked at Phoebus, silently pleading for help.

Phoebus shrugged. "It's official. He signs the papers tonight. If Frollo says he's in charge, you can try to talk him out of it."

"Me?"

"I'm trying not to talk to that man, let alone in or out of anything," Phoebus said.

"Well, maybe you can take it easy just for today," Jacques said, only for Gaetan to continue trying to set him on fire purely by glaring at him. "He's got the armor and if he hits his head, it's not like he's going to hurt anything!"

"Hey!" Phoebus complained.

"No point in getting hurt without being on the payroll, right?"

Gaetan's expression didn't change.

"He's doing that damned man's job already!" Jacques shouted at Phoebus and wandered off, abandoning the frightened man with Phoebus and Gaetan.

"Please kill me before he does anything else," the man said.

"I think he's suffered enough," Phoebus commented, looking at the sobbing man.

Gaetan turned her hateful gaze to Phoebus.

"Oh, we're back to this now?" Phoebus asked. "What did I do now?"

"We should at least report it," Gaetan said. "But I wouldn't send him to the Palace of Justice. He's more or less paid for his crimes." She signaled for her horse to move and it trotted off.

"We are back to this," Phoebus said and signaled to Achilles to follow. "Hey!" he called out. "Hold up!" He had to catch up to Gaetan instead. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, please. As much as I don't want anything to do with the guy, I agree with him."

"I listen to my master now, not you," she said. "He told me I am not allowed to do that and you can't convince me of going against him."

"I'm not trying to!" he said.

She stopped her horse immediately.

"Before you take any of this personally, let me finish. I don't think you're ready yet and I don't care if he does because I don't think he's ready yet. Mostly I don't think I'm ready for any of this yet."

"I have to be."

"I know. I know you can't go easy on me, but try to be accommodating at least." The only thing he wanted less than to go back in time to being nine and going to war again was watching someone else do it. If his commanders put up with him for years they must be saints.

"You wouldn't take orders from me," she said, sullenly. All her anger was spent. As much as Frollo could yell at the man for hours, Gaetan couldn't be mad at him for long. He kept doing things to try to fix everything, and his inability to say precisely what he wanted to say made it even harder. It was almost impossible to believe the man was a soldier most of the time.

"Depends on what they are."

"I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do," she whispered.

"Yell at people, that's about all he does," Phoebus whispered back.

"You realize you'll have to call me sir, this time around."

"Oh no I'm not! Not even Frollo could make me do that."


	10. Following The Leader

Phoebus and Gaetan didn't talk much for the next few days. It was too awkward for either of them already and they were given little chance to slowly let things sink in. The soldiers' unease, the citizens shock and refusal to call Gaetan anything but 'Chiot,' the gypsies chanting songs in Andalusian and Spanish all shoved their wish to feel normal further and further into their own heads, buried under dread and frustration.

Every attempt at conversation fizzled away like trying to light a wet candle. A little girl who was now a man and a man who had no idea what he was now couldn't stop thinking of their situation as just that and thus never managed more than three words to a sentence per hour at best.

The first day was spent in boredom and doubtfulness. After a long lecture on the importance of asserting authority and demanding respect for it the following night from Frollo, followed by two well-aimed rocks the next day, things were just as awkward, only much quieter.

After one arrest for illegal gambling in the street and resisting arrest by refusing to be ordered around by a small child, two rocks which resulted in two black eyes, people were either too afraid or too embarrassed to try anything.

The quiet and awkwardness reached its peak when Claude got bored standing around and leaning against the fence as he watched the horse show just as much restlessness and boredom. During the night, Claude gave her lessons, lectures, or even more training. But in the day he was bored. He was glad he didn't have to yell at someone every five minutes, but he had long ago finished all his paperwork, which was the only part of his job he could do these days. Well, there was no law in walking one's horse in the streets.

…………….

"Hey!" Esmeralda screamed, wiping the splattered remains of a snowball off her face. "You stupid kids!"

Three gypsy kids chased each other around haphazardly, completely oblivious to anything or anyone around them.

"Malarrimo's coming!"

"Can't get me!"

"There was a rock in that!"

"I told you, watch out for Malarrimo!"

"Oh yeah? I'll get you with a horse!"

"Knock it off!" Esmeralda yelled, grabbing two kids as they ran to grab Djali, who butted the third off his feet, even more angry about being used as a 'horse.'

"You're not our mommy!" one of the kids screamed.

Djali knocked the kid over again as he tried to get up.

"Well, you'd better be thankful about that!" Esmeralda yelled, holding the two kids up at eye level. "Or I'd be throwing things worse than rocks at you! Now get out of here!" She dropped the kids and lightly smacked them as they scrambled away.

"And don't you dare—" she was interrupted by another snowball to the face. "…throw that." She tried to run after them, but after one step, she was stopped by two riders on horseback. "Malarrimo!" she yelled, seeing the apprentice and the captain. "I mean—uh…" She really wished that of all the hundreds of gypsies at least one would have bothered to mention the boy's real name.

"What does Malarrimo mean?" the boy asked. It was hard for him to seem as authoritative as he wanted, given that he was years from his voice ever breaking.

"It means, uh, 'raven.'"

The blonde next to the boy shook his head. Phoebus had had a mental romp through Frollo's memory lane that made him want to go speak to Jacques and then hang himself immediately after. He settled for burgundy that tasted like someone had fermented a rotting fish in an old boot and added a dead rat for flavor. To replace Gaetan's disintegrating clothes, Frollo had given her a set of black clothes. Frollo had argued that he hadn't actually specified any color whatsoever from the tailors, so it wasn't his fault. Frollo commented that the color was useful in that it didn't show dirt and by 'dirt' Phoebus was sure he meant 'blood.' Phoebus could have dealt with everything perfectly fine—fineish—if Frollo had stopped talking after he mentioned that he never really did have any clue about the rules of colors and said his mother had insisted 'black went with everything, whatever that means.' Phoebus was positive that Frollo was doing all this on purpose because just aftwerwards Frollo had said 'I guess it must be a woman thing.' A short while later, Phoebus scared his horse half to death by trying to force the mental image of Frollo as female out of his head by banging it against the wall of the stables.

The fact that Gaetan, looking half-dead with the black outfit clashing with her light skin and dirty yellow hair enhancing the fact that she looked like a scarecrow falling apart was named after a carrion bird, Phoebus didn't want to be on the same continent when Frollo learned his nickname, which was probably 'old buzzard.'

"My name is Esmeralda," she introduced herself in a way she though was polite. To her dismay, the older man was looking at her cleavage and the boy was looking at her goat.

"You wouldn't know where Claude Frollo is, would you?" she asked, hoping the males would start paying attention to her words, or at least her eyes.

"I'm serving in his place for now," Gaetan answered, finally looking her in the eyes. "I don't stop snowball fights."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to him in person."

"I think she's insane," Gaetan whispered to Phoebus, who was too concerned over Frollo's name and the fact that chaos always happened when someone said it to ogle Esmeralda anymore.

"I think everyone is," he whispered back.

"He… I…uh…" Esmeralda tried to find something to say. "I think he might have something of mine."

Gaetan and Phoebus exchanged frightened glances, hoping the other would say something and convince them that the idea of Frollo having something a very curvy and barely dressed woman owned didn't mean what they thought it meant.

"I think I want to try some of that stuff you drink," Gaetan said.

"You are nowhere near ready for—oh, sweet saints, you live with him, don't you?" Phoebus asked. "I don't think they make anything strong enough, but let's go see."

The two rode off as fast as they could.

…………

It was almost pleasant, walking his horse through the city. Everyone gave Claude lots of room and no one even looked at him, let alone talked to him. However, for the last two hours, he'd had the distinct feeling that he was being followed.

After stopping to water his horse at a well and wondering why he couldn't have tried this one, close to a tavern, several dungheaps, and a chandler, twenty years ago, he found out who—make that what—had been following him.

"Oh, it's just you," he muttered to a familiar goat.

Claude's destrier gave an angry whinny to tell the newcomer it wasn't welcome.

"Oh, hush!" Claude told the horse. He didn't need a livestock fight on his hands. "Stop following me. Even a blind man can tell the difference between me and your owner at a distance. Go away," he told the goat.

The goat grabbed the bottom of Claude's robe and tugged, trying to lead him away.

"Stop that! I am not edible!" he yelled, yanking his clothes from the animal.

The destrier bent down and glared at the goat, which was smaller than its head. The destrier let out a loud snort, sending two large steamy gusts from its nostrils, sending Djali running in terror.

"I guess that's what I get for putting this in my pocket," Claude said, given a handful of alfalfa to the horse.

It had proudly defended its master against he strange creature and was now being rewarded. It was still a good horse, even if the man didn't ride it anymore.

…………..

The river hadn't washed everything away yet. There was a small fringe of people in the middle. They kept their mouths shut, afraid the two sides would come together momentarily to go after them before going back to fighting each other.

One woman knew she had to pick a side soon someday. It was just her and her little boy in their little shack. She could go to her mother or she could go to her husband. Whoever she found, she'd leave the other, probably forever.

"Mommy!" her son yelled as he ran into the house.

"Stop running in the house!" she scolded.

"But mommy!"

"And stop yelling!"

"But—"

"You got snow everywhere! Go stand in the corner!"

"But mommy!"

"What could possibly be so important?"

"I saw Esmeralda talking to Malarrimo! She was asking him where Frollo was! She wanted to see him!"

"What have I told you about lying?" She raised her spatula to smack the boy

"I'm not lying! I saw her! And she tried to get him to feed her goat!" the boy squealed.

"Are you sure! Are you absolutely sure?" the woman whispered, grabbing the boy.

"Mommy, you're hurting—"

"Are you sure! You know how dangerous saying things like this is!"

"That's why I'm telling you mommy!" the boy began to cry. "Are we going to see grandma?"

"No, we're going to see Daddy."

"But you said it was too dangerous—"

"Playing with him is even worse! Come on!"

………………………

Soon half the gypsies knew of Esmeralda's betrayal and thought that the other half knew exactly what she was doing and was responsible.

One group convened in one of the more permanent huts, a lookout watching the king and his loyals, making sure they suspected nothing. Something had to be done, and with Esmeralda so close to the king, no doubt they'd all be fed to the minister's horse, which had almost eaten the goat.

It was up to them. They weren't going to stand by and let Clopin hand them over to the French just because he couldn't keep his pants on around one of them, and they were not going to let an already oppressive minister torture them vicariously through a child.

Obviously, they couldn't get rid of Frollo, but maybe they could take out his attempt at making another one of him. Nothing that cruel old man did would go unpunished if they had anything to say about it.

One man volunteered. He had to keep his wife and son safe, especially now that they had come to their senses and joined them. He'd send a message to the king as well. This was still a war.

……………..

Gaetan slowly pushed the door open, hoping to silently slip inside. She froze as the door creaked when she'd pushed it open only an inch.

"I've heard stealthier donkeys than you. Get inside, now!" Claude yelled.

Gaetan shoved the door open and crept in like a dog with its tail between its legs and rubbed her head. Ashamed, she stopped and looked up at him as he walked over to her. When he was really mad, he came to you.

She didn't flinch as his hand struck her across the face. "Two weeks! I do everything for you and in two weeks you turn into a disgusting chamberpot of a person by drinking! I could smell you from behind the door. What could possibly have possessed you to touch the stuff! You smell like a tannery on fire!"

"Phoebus said it might help…" Gaetan whispered. Her head hurt worse and she had barely swallowed a sip, most of which went straight up her nose as she gagged. "But I kinda spilled the bottle on myself, master."

"Phoebus!" Claude yelled, rapping her on the head. "If you need to know how to act like a man, ask me, not him! What passes for manly for him is a dead pig left out in the rain. You are supposed to have breeding and refinement, to learn how not to be like you were when I found you! You are going to learn etiquette, and you are going to learn it now!" He grabbed her arm violently and held on tighter as she tried to pull away and dragged her away from the door. "I warned you about going back to your nasty ways. The next time you do, you're cleaning the floor with a broken arm!"

"There was this gypsy, master! She was saying scary things about you and—"

"If someone says something you don't like, punch them in the face, don't go into a tavern!" He angrily tossed her to the floor. "I know I told you to fear those people, but what could possibly frighten you about what they have to say about me? It's just a trick to encourage disloyalty; you should be more cunning than to fall for such things." Now they were performing witchcraft on his apprentice. Next they'd be charming his horse. That was probably what the goat was about.

"She said you have something of hers, master," Gaetan said. She wondered what he'd do to her now that she'd told him, but she didn't want to see what happened if she tried to wait it out and he found out later. She never wanted to relay a message to him from the gypsy girl again, especially now that his mood suddenly changed.

"What was this gypsy's name?" he asked, his voice now soothing and soft, as if trying to tempt the answer he wanted with candy.

"Esmenarda I think, master."

"She gave me something a while ago. Don't let the captain put thoughts in your head, his mind is in the gutter so much it's a wonder it doesn't wash away in the rain. Now pay attention, I'm going only going to teach you this once and you are to live by these rules, understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

As Claude lectured her long into the night on etiquette and acting like a young gentleman, his mind began to wonder about the talisman Esmeralda had left him and what to do with it. He had tied it to a cross and thrown in behind a bookshelf. So far no dead rats had shown up, but he didn't want to touch it just yet. He was still constantly distracted by her in thought and most of the times he went out walking, he found himself following her tambourine music or standing still and trying hard to resist it. In his boredom he began to contemplate exactly what was wrong with him, for though he found himself constantly haunted by thoughts he paid for in hard prayer, he found that all he truly wanted from seeing her in his head so often was a kiss, a tiny chaste kiss, a desire that if not for her origin would have been a perfectly acceptable to wish for.

The fact that the spell didn't quite seem to be making up its mind no matter how he put it kept him from making up his. He wondered if it was a bad luck talisman, for he had been injured the same day. If that was so, strangely his bad luck had taken a wrong turn somewhere. As much as he had been repulsed by the thought of keeping Gaetan, his luck had improved once she arrived. She had taken over so many cumbersome chores and even the gypsy riots had died down soon after she showed up.

No, Gaetan seemed to be a third wheel in the equation, although sometimes the equation fell apart altogether, given the gypsy girl seemed clueless about why he was watching her and couldn't even keep track of her goat.

This meant he had to decide on what do with the thing. Maybe it wasn't a cursed object, maybe it was just a trick to lure him into a trap. What would happen if he sent his apprentice to return the thing instead?

No, he wouldn't give it back at all. If the whole point was to return it, he was keeping it and pretending he never got the message. Whatever the gypsies were up to, he wasn't falling for it until he had something that guaranteed it wasn't something sinister.

…………….

Sinister or not, Esmeralda had long ago forgotten about her scarf and her words earlier had been nothing more than coincidence.

"What?" Esmeralda yelled over Prince's wails.

"I said—let go of my hair!" Clopin tried to yell over the baby. "Five seconds, that's all I ask!"

"What?" she yelled again.

"Not you—fine, you can have my hair, will that shut you up?" Clopin stopped his futile struggle with Prince and sat down, setting the baby on his lap. Maybe if he waited a few more hours, the baby would give up. At the moment, the baby had a lock of his hair in each of its tiny fists and was still wailing louder than anything Clopin had ever heard.

Esmeralda tried to distract the baby with Djali, who shot out of her hands and hid.

Clopin sighed, bowing his head. He wondered if he was dreaming because the baby suddenly went quiet and let go of his hair. Instead, the baby had knocked his hat off his head and stuck as much as he could in his mouth. "All that noise because you wanted to eat my hat?"

"Is that safe?" Esmeralda asked.

"I don't think I care," Clopin said, rubbing his aching scalp. "I was trying to ask how things were going for you."

"Slower than I was hoping," Esmeralda said. Her disappointment wasn't improving as she noticed Prince staring at her chest and drooling. Well, maybe she could share hair tips with Malarrimo if her plan got her anywhere.

"No ravens yet, I take it," Clopin said, this time rubbing his eyes and taking the feather away from Prince before he tried to eat that too.

"It flew away," Esmeralda said.

"I thought it wasn't a bird yet."

"Well, it ran away."

"You don't need any help, do you?"

"I don't want to think about that," she said. Truthfully, Frollo didn't seem to know what of hers to stare at at the festival and at that time she had thought it was funny. If he was in the closet too, he was doing a good job at hiding in there.

"Well, you'll have to, because I can't think about anything at the moment," Clopin said. "I haven't slept in three days and I've barely eaten in two. Esmeralda, could you—"

"Oh no!" she said. "I may be your friend, but I do not babysit."

"I was going to say your goat was about to eat one of Prince's toys, but it's too late now."

"Djali!" Esmeralda scolded, sending the goat back into hiding. "You can't take the baby to work with you?"

"With this noise? Frollo'd throw him in the orphanage and me in his Palace of Justice."

"Can't you ask someone to babysit?"

"Wouldn't look good to other people."

"Maybe just until you can find someone to teach you how to keep him quiet."

"If I can find someone," Clopin said.

"It's going to look worse to people if you get yourself killed over this kid."

"I guess you're right," Clopin said, then sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. "Do things look different to you around here?"

"I've seen a few people rearranging things," she said. "And some families moved in with relatives, but they said it was a personal stuff."

"Well, tell me if you hear about anything weird—weirder."

"Weirder than the fact that I'm very worried little Mal's living with an old man who's never been around a woman for more than a minute?"

"So?"

"So he's a bit… fashion conscious."

"Well, he should be!" Clopin exclaimed. "I wouldn't want to think of him without clothes."

"That's not what I meant… I mean, this is a big city and… "

"Esmeralda, stop right there. I've already heard more than I can take of limericks about that man and that boy. Don't give people ideas, especially dumb ones like those. There's too much that doesn't make sense with any of that." Clopin took his hat away from Prince, who started screaming again. "I really do need sleep, I'm starting to stand up for that nasty sod. Well, the past few weeks have been rather horse-free, so I guess this is the worst that's going to happen."


	11. Lets be Friends

"Sir!" Phoebus yelled, throwing the door to Frollo's house open.

Claude was sitting in a chair and the towel he held to his wet hair slowly fell from his fingertips as he stopped at the sight of the captain. Fortunately for Phoebus, the man was for once too shocked to say anything.

"I need you!" Phoebus said. "Not like—I need one of you! Now!"

"Take him, not me," Claude said, through gritted teeth. It had been quiet on the streets until now. It was a suspicious quiet, but he could tolerate suspicious. Not even the haunting dreams of the gypsy woman could hold back his longing for climbing onto the back of his horse and charging through the night, purging it of those who had dared upset the peace in his city. A good protector rode out to battle to fight enemies, not just preparing papers to stop intangible ones. He turned away from Phoebus. He was nearly tempted to ban the use of hammers throughout the city for this.

"But—"

"Exactly what use would I be?" Claude argued. "Besides, I'd risk getting killed too."

"I meant she's in the washroom," Phoebus said quietly.

"Then wait," Claude said, ending the conversation like a giant door slamming shut.

Phoebus said nothing and wondered if there was a corner he could back into. Thankfully, Gaetan opened the door to the washroom a few seconds later and Phoebus grabbed her wrist and ran out the door, shutting it loudly.

"Did I miss something?" Claude asked himself, turning to the door. He was taken out of his angry moping when he realized Phoebus had just had a conversation with him without actually saying anything stupid.

………………

"I'm only telling you this because I'd tell him this if it weren't for the fact that he could scare the plague: be careful," Phoebus said, still running and dragging Gaetan to the barracks.

"What's happening?" she asked.

"Two people have been murdered and we can't find the guy! He ran off with a kid!" Phoebus yelled frantically. "I don't know what to do! I'm a solider. It was pretty easy to find the bad guys where I came from. I need someone smart to tell me how to find him—wait, did I just say I was stupid?"

"No."

"Good, come on."

Phoebus didn't let go of Gaetan's arm until they reached the tiny pool of torchlight near the stables. After they were both on horseback, Phoebus told her to stay close, but his only reason was 'because.'

This time the uncomfortable silence had nothing to do with either of them. It was out of convenience and mourning that no words passed between them. Gaetan spent her time leading Phoebus through dark alleys she had been told never to go near as a girl and trying to predict the criminal's movements, which was most of what the late-night lectures had been about until Claude had decided she needed to learn etiquette. She had been taught how to hunt down and catch criminals with different motivations; however, she had no idea which on this particular criminal had.

From what little she spoke to Phoebus about, the murder had been all about the child. Nothing had been stolen, and barely anything had even been disturbed in the house. Why would anyone want to steal a child in this fashion? The most likely reason was for a hostage, collateral to drive people like her away if they were caught. But it still made no sense. It all seemed too planned out. Why take a hostage and then be too hard to find in the first place?

She had been vulnerable all her life. She had only temporarily forgotten what it was like to wonder if she was going to die that night. The familiar feeling called up not cowardice or even a thought to flee, but a question: what did Frollo feel after so many decades of this?

……….

Gaetan jerked her horse to a halt suddenly as she realized she was alone in the dark. Phoebus hadn't followed her down this alley. She tore her dagger out of its sheath and studied her options. She could turn around and look for him, but there was no knowing where they separated or where he went when he started looking for her. She could chase him all over the city in the dark, or she could keep going and find someone eventually, him, the soldiers, someone wandering the streets—

A hand grabbed her hair and tore her off her horse. There was nothing to see in the dark, but she could feel a hot breath on her face.

Panicking, she thrust her dagger at her attacker, only guessing at where to strike. The dagger lodged on something, then easily slid through something else that was softer. She had hit bone and then found flesh before her attacked threw her into the wall across the alley.

She heard the horse make its closest attempt at a scream and then run away down the alley. It'd be a miracle if she were so lucky.

She looked up from her crumpled position on the pavement. She wanted to scream, but all she could manage to do was cough as an indistinct shape approached her. She could see movement, and occasionally an outline of black on blacker. Silently, a patch of moonlight caught on her dagger, stuck in him somewhere, accompanied by a large gleam of a cutlass coming down after her head.

Closing her eyes and doing her best to roll out of the way, she heard a loud, wet thump followed by someone choking and then footsteps.

Despite her aching head and the subsequent sparks of red flashing before her eyes, she tried to stand. A hand took hers and pulled her to her feet. "How many fingers am I holding up?" Phoebus yelled.

"It's too dark to see."

"You're fine."

Gaetan put her hand over her eyes as someone brought a torch over. A large man, a peasant, was on the ground, holding his neck and having trouble breathing. Something liquid shone all over him and spilled out on the street. Her dagger must have pierced his jugular notch. When Phoebus hit him, it must have jostled the blade.

"He's bleeding," Gaetan barely managed. That was all she could say about a strange man who had tried to kill her.

"He said take him to Jacques," Phoebus ordered to the soldiers. He waited until the soldiers, including the man with the torch, had left. "Sorry. It's just that this way he might have a chance to survive to go to jail."

Gaetan nodded in the dark, hoping Phoebus felt it with his hand still on her. As her vision began clearing, more parts of her began to protest her new job, especially her shoulder, which she brushed his hand off of to rub it.

He grabbed her other shoulder to lead her through the dark city. She didn't protest. She had lost him once tonight and it nearly cost her her life. Maybe when Frollo explained how not to get killed in the dark she could go off on her own again. "The kid's dead," Phoebus said. That was all there was to it. There wasn't much else to add anyway. "You hurt?"

"I'll walk it off," she said. Phoebus didn't ask how she'd walk off a shoulder injury. He didn't say anything. He'd have enough trouble finding her horse again.

They joined the rest of the soldiers just before the door to the hospice opened.

Jacques stood in the doorway, holding a candle. He didn't look at the man the soldiers shoved forward for very long. He just shook his head and closed the door on all of them. The man was dead.

Gaetan didn't quite understand what it all meant. She knew death; she'd been constantly reminded of how her misery came from her mother's failed attempt at drowning her, yet had been still afraid of threats of trying again; executions were public and they were one of the few entertainments she was allowed, given that the crowds often bought random trinkets.

Supposedly, she was meant to feel something about the man, but all she felt was tired. Tomorrow was Sunday and she wondered if God would be offended if she slept through the sermon just this once. To her, people were people and the man's features were lit up red and black just like everyone else's. She didn't understand. She had not just killed a murderer tonight. She had killed a gypsy.

………………..

Frollo and Phoebus had more of a loud discussion than an argument; lack ofsleep, memories of previous encounters, and frustration had worn both men down by now.

Frollo won everything. The first thing he won was that Gaetan was dismissed from the whole thing and sent to bed, although Phoebus disapproved of the older man's cajoling and obvious pride. He demanded Phoebus give her a sword, she might manage to stay on the horse with one and she'd be better armed. He had already won the argument of if someone was going to risk their life, it was better to send someone with two good legs. Phoebus was thrown out of the house around dawn after being reminded of the fact that not only had he been Gaetan's height and age and survived battle, but so had Frollo…well, not height.

Claude soon went to his bedroom to rouse her, only to find her already up, trying to fend off sleep as she finished dressing. She tried to apologize for waking up late and cringed as he brought his hand to her, but all he did was pat her wild hair and say she was excused this time and that she'd 'get used to it,' before he sent her off to church.

'Good dog, go play' he thought.

This was easier than handing out treats.

…………………

The gypsies were having enough of dogs. Some cur had gone after little Malarrimo. He might not see it as a personal attack, at least not yet, but his master undoubtedly did and would immediately teach the boy even more gypsy-hate due to this. Some mongrel had not just lost his own life, but threatened all of theirs, regardless of their alliance.

Everyone stayed below street level for days after the event, hiding in their homes or other places away from the laws of either Paris or the court. Frollo was pacing the city, hunting for clues. Days later he decided it was indeed an isolated incident and exactly what the gypsies had been planning all these weeks.

What was more irritating was that Clopin was sniffing about as well on this incident and he actually refused to give up after Frollo had. The loyals didn't want to rat out the dissenters and the dissenters refused to reveal themselves in a time of defeat, but were too proud to point fingers at anyone but the King himself over their troubles. It was a month later that Clopin stopped trying to dig around about the incident, and only after he found something he considered more important.

Little Malarrimo had made his mark on everyone. The little puppy was already trained for a dogfight. It was best to leave these French ferals to themselves, no matter what one thought of them.

Everyone was wary of Esmeralda the 'she-dog.' She was trying to lure wolves from their den and no one wanted to be around to get bitten with her.

There were too many dogs waiting for someone to throw them a bone and it was too dangerous to do so for any of them. If only there was a pound to put them in.

……………….

"Why can't churches have basements instead?" Gaetan muttered, finally reaching the top of the steps.

Her feet barely had a chance to set themselves on the balcony, before they and the rest of her were swept up by Quasimodo as he grabbed her and spun her in a hug.

"You're back!—and a lot lighter than I thought you were." He set Gaetan back on her feet as lightly as possible.

There was no real point doing so, for her sense of balance was still going for a ride and she fell backwards, barely managing not to land on the basket.

"I'm fine," she said, hoping the words didn't indicate she wanted to go for another ride.

"And you look like Frollo," Quasimodo said, helping her up.

"He said that wasn't his fault," she replied. She didn't want to talk today. Last night hadn't so much disturbed her as the ubiquitous thinking she was only five and everything was too big or too high and she was too young and too small. Even Frollo had mentioned that she needed to grow a bit more before he could teach her half of the rest of the martial arts he'd learned.

"A lot like him," Quasimodo said, pointing at the bloodstains on her clothes. His words had a heaviness to them that she was dreading.

Only now did Gaetan realize she had thrown on her clothes from the night before in her drowsiness. No wonder no one tried to wake her as she slept through mass. Maybe if she told him politely that she was right she could preemptively win the argument and be done with it. "I told you before; I do his job… now that he's not training me anymore."

"But you caught him, right?"

"Caught who?"

"You arrested someone, right?"

"Well, I found him…" she said. Technically, he found her. "But he didn't last very long."

"That happens to Master Frollo sometimes," Quasimodo said cheerfully. "I'd love to hear about it. It must be like Deborah riding off into battle, or Yael when she defeated Siserah. I'm sorry, you probably want to change, first."

She had only heard bits and pieces of the stories of those women, but she knew there were bits missing from the story, or at least there were bits nothing like what she had experienced.

"I don't think I'm that good," she said, following him.

"Master will teach you," he said. Quasimodo had worried about his father in his absence before, but he had given up on worrying about anything truly serious for years. His father had survived injuries, sickness, and even a poor attempt at poison once. He could be damaged to an extent, but nothing fatal could ever befall him in Quasimodo's head. Not only that, but Frollo had tended to a few of Quasimodo's wounds from toppling off parts of the church, and had left supplies and medicine when Quasimodo had taken ill. "Nothing can happen to you with him around." What he was truly happy about, was the fact that she'd tell him stories about her daring adventures. Frollo hardly ever told him much about his daring feats in chasing criminals and he was a very bad storyteller as well.

……………….

Far off in the shadows, the two were being watched. They were being commented on as well.

"Yeah, change into something not like him would be my preference," Laverne muttered.

"Oh, come now," Victor said. "I hardly think a bit of dress up and the same job puts her in the same caliber as Frollo."

"Hey, let's not judge right yet," Hugo said.

The others both backed away slightly and raised an eyebrow. It wasn't like Hugo to come up with sane ideas.

"This is only her second week. She could be just like him once a month!"

"No goldfish can be more annoying than you, Hugo," Laverne said, smacking him on the head. "He should get one to replace you with."

……………..

Time, as it tends to, sped by. Time has a schedule, and it likes to laugh at those who miss it, because you've been warned far in advance.

All Phoebus was concerned about missing was lunch. When he had solved that problem and was about to return to duty, he wandered right into Time and Fate's previously scheduled disaster. Frollo was once again walking his horse and had nearly walked it right into the captain. "Sir, I—Gaetan said—"

"If you're following orders, I really don't care," Claude said. "But I did want to talk to you about him. Was he injured recently?"

"Injured?" Phoebus asked cluelesly. "No, why?"

"Seems Gaetan has been in pain a bit. And said 'he' was bleeding. Won't tell me a thing about it. I told him to take it like a man, but I was wondering if you knew anything."

"Oh boy…" was all Phoebus could manage. "I'm…I'm gonna go over this way, or whatever way you're not going and—"

"Captain Pheobus, first you think I'm senile, and now you think I'm five," Claude said.

Phoebus was terrified at the thought that Frollo might be trying not to laugh at something. "I don't understand…" Phoebus said timidly. He didn't want to understand.

"Exactly," Claude said. "If you ever smarten up, your first lesson should be that I am your superior and elder and that I will utterly ruin your day if you go around getting stupid ideas ever again."

"So you're just playing with me?"

"Phoebus, what person doesn't get that talk from—when exactly did you leave for the war?"

"I was nine, sir."

"Oh, well in that case, you should go ask Gaetan to fill you in on some details and correct a few things the officers told you."

"I will be so happy when you can ride that horse again, sir."

"Well, this should teach you to show up on time," Claude said, crossing his arms and looking sternly at the captain. He didn't want it to show, but playing with the man's empty head was quite amusing sometimes.

"Can't I just go to jail instead?"

"Oh, but you wouldn't learn anything," Claude chided.

'Great' Phoebus thought. 'Now he's talking to me like I'm a little kid.' "I learned to keep my mouth shut."

"Good, that's lesson number one."

"And the other lessons, sir?"

"Oh, I'll leave you to try and figure those out yourself. I can't do everything for you," Claude said.

Phoebus was sure 'stay the Hell out of Paris' was the major lesson.

Claude waved Phoebus away and continued down the road.

…Or maybe the lesson was just to stay the Hell away from him.


	12. Feminity

Claude had been annoying Phoebus in early February and now it was late February and he had yet to come up with a way to annoy the captain further. He was beginning to be bothered that the gypsy's spell had turned his head nearly as vacuous as the captain's and then was almost furious as he realized where he was going.

He was standing at the edge of a crowd that had gathered around all-too familiar tambourine music. He turned to stalk away, when the music suddenly stopped and there was a feminine scream accompanied by the tambourine seemingly having a seizure. Then the goat shrieked.

The crowd gasped and everyone backed away and Claude had to fight to keep from people stepping on his foot before battling through the crowd.

After shoving people away and stabbing several in the gut or the foot with his crutches, Claude finally found out what was happening. Esmeralda was trying to beat a large, angry, and probably drunk, man away with her tambourine. He held onto her arm tightly just below the shoulder. The goat tried to fight back on his mistress's behalf, only to shriek as it was punted away—apparently again.

The minister didn't know what to do. He had no idea how to deal with a hostage situation. By the time he ever got to one, the criminal panicked and let the hostage or had already killed them. Even if he did know what to do, he realized, he couldn't do it anyway. He was still on crutches and he had yet to get to his horse, which might have done some damage or at least created a distraction. No one was going to listen to him while he was stuck on two sticks.

For the first time in his life, Claude found himself a spectator at a crime. Or maybe this would be an execution, given the man's sword and how her struggles were angering him. He hadn't been a spectator at one of those for decades either.

However, he'd never been a spectator to whatever was happening next. A large rock flew over the heads of several participants of the crowd and hit the man in the back of the head. Soon another rock flew at him from another direction and for a second he released Esmeralda.

Instead of running, she used the newfound freedom to pull out a dagger attached to her ankle. It turned out to be a smarter move than running for he grabbed her wrist and lunged to strike at her with his sword.

She slashed at the man's wrist, just above the hand that held her. He pulled back, screaming. She turned to run this time, but she was too late to escape on her own.

Someone grabbed her and threw her out of the way as the sword came down. Claude missed the rest of the fight, for Esmeralda was thrown in his direction and the only thing to stop her from hitting the street was him.

She stood up, standing on his feet, and screamed something as she watched. Doing his best to shuffle his feet out from under her while still encumbered by the brace, Claude assumed that what she was yelling meant 'puppy' for that was what everyone else was yelling. The question of why was a confounding mystery he would see if he could figure out later.

"You're in my way!" he yelled. No one did anything. As much as her backside looked nice, he didn't want to see it, especially while trying to stand up. "Excuse me!" he tried again, finally but barely shoving himself up on the crutches.

The crowd gasped and Esmeralda blocked his view as he focused on balancing before standing at full height. "What's—hey!" Esmeralda grabbed the closest piece of cloth, which happened to be his dalmatian sleeve, and started to cry on it. "I am not a handkerchief!" he yelled, tearing his sleeve from her grasp and righting himself to his proper height of half a foot taller than her.

Pushing her away, he caught sight of the last of the fight, realizing he'd missed the climax of battle and resenting the gyspy because her pathetic sobs had been pointless. Esmeralda's rescuer had turned out to be Gaetan, and the man had sublimated killing the 'boy' in Esmeralda's place. Gaetan had been shorter than the man realized and he's missed both in timing and in height in his attack, thanks to her training. Gaetan, however, misjudged the man's weight and struggled to keep her footing and to shove his dead weight off.

One of Gaetan's feet slid out from under her and she fell to her knee, as she used her other leg to slowly shove the body to the side. She picked herself up and tore her short sword from the body.

"Miss, are you—" Gaetan asked as she turned to Esmeralda, then stopped, realizing not just what, but who she was. Then she noticed her master behind the gypsy and swore as she tried to run.

Now that Esmeralda wasn't in his way, Claude could easily maneuver on his crutches. He easily reached out and grabbed her arm. "What have I told you about that language?" he yelled. "Perhaps you'd like to practice your dodging skills—"

"Oh, is this your child?" Esmeralda interrupted, putting her hands on both their wrists.

"Unhand both of us!" Claude demanded. "And go away. Gaetan, you're getting cleaned up." He started leading her to the nearest well, which was blocks away.

"You're daddy must be so proud!" Esmeralda said, petting Gaetan's hair. She stared at her now blood covered hand, and then shrugged. She licked her hand and tried to smooth Gaetan's hair back into place before the blood dried.

"Daddy?" both 'men' asked.

"You're not his father?" Esmeralda asked.

"No, I am not," Claude said. "I have not even been married—I see you people don't follow that line of logic. Why are you following me?"

"I was wondering if I could thank your little boy for saving me," she said, walking closer to them. "Who's boy is he?"

"His father died in the war," Claude said. "His mother needed the money, and I needed an apprentice, simple as that." There, a much more respectable backstory than being a bastard child of some whore. He wasn't lying; he just kept a few details to himself. Even he didn't have as much breeding and refinery as he wanted if you looked at the truth straight on. His father was just a working class peasant and his mother was considered a spinster when she married.

"That's so nice of you," Esmeralda said.

"No, it's not," he replied flatly. "Why are you still here?" He contemplated sending her to Phoebus. Between the both of them, they had enough stupidity and insanity to fill an insane asylum. But the captain had enough flaws without chatting up a gypsy witch.

"You've never been married?" she asked, changing the subject. "Then I hope this isn't too forward, but I must say I've admired you for some time now." Esmeralda wondered why it was so easy to get his attention without talking to him, but when she did talk, he didn't like her. Too bad hitting him over the head with a blunt object and dragging him off somewhere private didn't count as flirting.

"That's very… interesting" he said, finally stopping at the well. "Except, not really." He thought he couldn't be more confused when he thought of her last night, but now she had corrected him. She was pretty, entertaining to watch for some reason, and so far didn't break the law, but he preferred her when she wasn't talking.

"I mean, I know this is hardly a befitting situation, and I do hope you'll excuse my ignorance, but… oh, if only I knew the grace and poise that suited someone like you!"

"Um…" Claude said. Talking to Phoebus on one of his worse days made more sense than this.

Gaetan did her best to pretend nothing was happening and just washed her face with water from the well's bucket.

"It would be a dream to be wooed as a proper woman," she said, clasping her hands and leaning against him slightly.

"What part of don't touch me did you not get the first time?" he asked. In truth, he was stalling for time. He knew what all the words meant, but strung together like this and in this context, she might as well have been speaking whatever native language her people spoke. "Did the archdeacon send you?"

"Huh?" she asked.

"Young woman, I honestly have no idea what you're saying." He hoped in whatever code she was speaking in, it meant 'Go away,' or at least 'Make sense.'

Before she could try and explain, Djali butted her legs and jerked its head at something. Casting a quick glance in that direction, she saw Clopin waving at her from an alleyway.

"Oh, how decorous of you to say such things," she said. "I shan't trouble you any longer. But I do hope to see you again!" She ran off down the alley, Djali tagging along.

"What was that all about?" Claude asked himself, then turned to Gaetan.

"She likes you, master," Gaetan said, suddenly feeling pressed for answers.

"I don't see why," he said. People weren't supposed to like him. It ruined the whole point of torturing someone if they smiled back at you.

"Romantically," Gaetan said. As intelligent as Frollo was, Phoebus was smarter about this, and she was sure that his horse could outwit him at a few things.

"Oh." There was a very long pause as she finished washing up. "Wait, what?"

………………

"This is your plan?" Clopin whispered, wanting to scream.

"You said you trusted me," Esmeralda complained, hands on her hips.

"I do trust you. It's him I don't trust!" Clopin whispered, waving his arm out at the streets.

"He hasn't done anything," she said, now crossing her arms.

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

"Look, he's a bit stupider than I thought about this, but I'm sure this plan will work," she said. She hoped to God and All Other Holy Things that she was right and that Frollo had shown up to stare at her and not at Djali. "He's just a lot harder than he looks—forget I said that."

"I'm making forgetting that a priority," Clopin said. "It's up there with breathing."

"He's not as easy as I thought."

"Esmeralda, I know corpses easier than him. In fact he might as well be one given that's all he's intent on making more of! Why don't you just go play on something metal during a thunderstorm? It's a lot safer and you're a lot more likely to get off while doing it."

"Clopin, that's not my plan," she said. Why did everyone think she was speaking an alien language all of the sudden?

"Oh, I get it" Clopin said, suddenly elated. "You're going to kill him. Go right ahead, I've been trying to kill him for years. It's the kid I have a problem with."

"Clopin, that's not my plan either," she said. "Although I will if I need to… Look, you will know the second I'm in trouble. But not yet."

"Fine. Just don't do anything I wouldn't—no, that's not right," Clopin put his hand on his face and tried to think.

"Clopin, look at it this way: he's not going to send my breasts to jail anytime soon and if he's paying attention to them, he's not paying attention to anything else."

"I'm not sure if you're flattering yourself or if you're amazingly brilliant."

"Well, he's not when it comes to this and I'm wondering how to give him a hint without painting words and arrows on my blouse," she said, rolling her eyes. She'd been harassed by more straightforward twelve-year olds than Frollo.

"Yes, that would be a problem," Clopin said, thoughtfully contemplating her cleavage. "Even if you did find someone who could read and write, it might be a bit too subtle."

……………….

Later that night, Claude sat thinking in his chair, obviously wishing he could pace back and forth across the floor without the aid of his crutches. Gaetan felt she would be safer from whatever he was contemplating in her corner, but the floor needed scrubbing again and in the winter the fireplace was used often and needed sweeping.

"What does that woman want?" Claude asked aloud.

"Flowers, master."

She saw his eyes focus on her and she cringed. Either the question was rhetorical or she had given him the wrong answer.

"In February?" Claude asked. "It's still snowing."

Gaetan didn't answer this time.

"Wait, you're a female," he said, as if he'd suddenly gotten a bright idea.

Gaetan hoped that was rhetorical too.

Claude had taken to calling her 'boy' even when no one else was present. To his mind, she was male. Flat chest, no hips, spoke perfectly coherently, had nothing to do with flowers, and wore pants; that equaled male in his mind. "You can translate her alien blathering. The question is what do I do with her?"

Gaetan decided this was going to be a one-man conversation, whether Claude liked it or not.

The problem with that was that Claude didn't like it at all. He'd never liked this. His father's only advice had been 'If she's serious about you, do whatever she wants, even if it's stupid. That's how I married your mother.' Why had been about money, so that was even less help. Eventually his father lowered his standards and just said 'Just make sure you bring home something human.'

His mother had been a lot more proactive in trying to see the family line continue in genetics. He had once made the mistake of asking why they didn't have more children themselves if they wanted to see grandkids. That was his first mistake and he had the misfortune to keep making them until his mother gave up on him entirely and thought he was a hopeless failure. She gave him the book _De Amore_, which he wondered why it was even written: nothing but delusional people having conversations with women who weren't interested and men looking for some non-existent clue to spurn on their attempts at love and then several paragraphs about talking with prostitutes and raping nuns. His mother had said the book was romantic, but he was terrified to be near her until they had a very long conversation about it, which ended in her telling him to ignore the book. After that, she sent him off to public gatherings and meetings with other lower aristocrats. He had always been dragged back from them by the ear and scolded, not having done something she thought was obvious. Her tirades went from yelling at him to talk to girls more and not to tell them it was all his mother's idea to why didn't he sneak off with them when invited and then not knowing what to do when he did. She stopped taking him anywhere after that and made one last attempt in the form of sending letters about a betrothal, all of which started with an apology about him. She gave up after that. She gave up on a lot of things after that. His only response had come after her death and he had to personally make a rejection letter, saying he was in mourning and he never wrote the mystery girl again.

His main problem, which his mother never understood, was that he didn't like a lot of people. If they were intelligent enough that he could stand to be around them, they often bored him. Women talked of knitting and pretty ponies and colors, never anything he could talk about. He preferred intellectual conversation, he was raised with refinement and breeding, he was well-read and modest. Esmeralda fit into those categories like a square peg in a round hole.

"How old are you, ten?"

That one wasn't rhetorical, Gaetan realized. For some reason, her instincts were telling her to run away. "What day is it today?"

"The twenty-fourth, why?" he asked.

"Fourteen, then."

Not noticing any significant change in her age, Claude continued. He didn't mention it, but he was perplexed by her acting a bit more morose than usual for the next few days. "Even better. You were a girl, and a peasant, you tell me how to go about courting her."

"But she's a gypsy, master." Hopefully that would make him go on about how horrible those people were and give up on his current idea.

"I know. That's the point," he said.

From her expression, she apparently didn't get it.

"If she weren't I'd take her to the church and have someone throw holy water on her for speaking in tongues!" he exclaimed, as if he'd found out how to turn lead into gold. "But this is an opportunity! The secrets she can tell me! I'll have her Court of Miracles! I'll know what the gypsies are up to, when they're going to act, how they operate! All I need to do is court her for a while and she'll tell me what I need to know. I just need you to tell me how. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Can't I just go to jail?"

………..

What could go wrong, did. Gaetan's first trouble was to figure out what exactly Frollo didn't understand. Sadly, the answer to that was everything. Courting was like a foreign language to him, and he'd already bungled Italian and German.

Frollo liked books and thought of people in a similar fashion. The cover didn't matter, but some people could certainly fix theirs up a bit. The inside just tended to be dull and tedious most of the time. Gaetan was a novel he'd found in the sewer: air it out properly, replace the cover, and give a spine and it was nearly decent. He'd slowly replace the pages with those of better quality, but the writing was rather interesting and pleasing. Phoebus had a nice cover and there were scribbled notes in the margins and most of the pages were blank, hopefully to be filled in later. Esmeralda, however, wasn't a very good book. All the words were right and had a loopy frilly quality to them, but strung together in sentences, they just draped gibberish across the pages and if you looked at the cover the wrong way, you got a very lewd image.

Gaetan's second problem was that her mother had never passed on any knowledge of romance to her. 'Make sure you smile at the men,' turned into her throwing rocks at mean ones and bullying younger ones. She never realized that it might make her unapproachable or be seen as a rejection. To her knowledge she had no suitors, but then, she was never taught how to spot one either. Often her mother would complain, completely oblivious to her daughter preferring to hit things than be hit on, 'Why aren't you married yet?'

Gaetan had to remember what she'd seen on the streets and heard from her mother and then had to filter a few bits out. After that, it was breaking every tiny piece down to its simplest parts for him to understand. By the time she understood how to talk to Frollo, she had concluded all men were morons.

"It starts with giving girls flowers," she said. That seemed like a simple enough sentence.

Seemed.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because… um… because they say they want flowers," One sentence in and she had hit an academic wall. Why was teaching being a man so easy to a girl, but teaching girls to a man so difficult? "I don't know; I don't like flowers."

"But flowers are things you shove in your mattress to keep bugs away," Claude protested.

"Not those flowers," Gaetan said. "Bunches of flowers. Bouquets."

Claude took a while to ponder that. Jacques used flowers in medicine and to stuff his beaked mask when a patient came in with an infectious disease. Why would healthy women want them? "What do they do with them?"

"Uh…Good question," Gaetan conceded. "But they're important for some reason. It's like etiquette. It makes you different from Phoebus."

"Point taken," Claude said. "But why can't she get her own?"

"Because that's not how it works… for some reason."

"What if it's winter?"

"You…write her letters or come back and tell her a big long speech about how much you missed her." She'd seen a lot of men get thrown out of houses over stuff like that. She kept an eye out for them in the spring. She knew how to look for them because she made a good amount of money—relatively—selling ribbons to men trying to woo young girls, only to sell the ribbons back to them the next day after the women had tossed them away.

"Well, she can't read," Claude said. "I think I'll politely wait until the flowers come up. It's only a little over a month. She can wait that long, trust me." He'd been finding himself wandering into her for a month. If she could put up with that, she could wait. "Is that it?"

"Um…. Girls like dinner," Gaetan said, trying to think. Her mother certainly talked about how her father bought her dinner a lot and how sweet it was. She talked about how some new guy tried to buy her dinner as best he could when he had no money, which was somehow sweeter. Gaetan didn't understand that logic.

"They can cook, can't they?" Claude asked.

Gaetan almost felt offended, and then almost felt sorry for him. He wasn't asking a mean question because he was mean. He was asking a stupid question because he was stupid. "No, they like it when they don't have to cook."

"But I feed you!" he said.

"That doesn't count," Gaetan said. "It only counts if flowers or a long speech about missing someone happens first."

"Women make no sense. Don't ever become one."

"I don't think I want to," she said. She also questioned the alternative, given the rampant stupidity.

…………………….

Men weren't just stupid, they took a dumb idea and ran with it like a dog playing with a ball and refusing to give it back. Frollo had asked her to consider the situation with Esmeralda and look for both danger and any details she had forgotten to mention about 'handling women.'

The rest of Paris had been smart enough to avoid anyone in charge of the law in a grumpy mood, especially if they were capable of killing, even if they were a tiny little kid. She was standing in for Frollo, and so was her mood.

Phoebus, however, wasn't learning much, no matter how hard the lessons. "You're in a foul mood," he said. He hoped to cheer her up from whatever Frollo had dumped on her.

"He wants to know about women," Gaetan said mournfully.

"Wow." Conversations usually took at least five seconds to blow up in his face, and often someone waited for him to put his foot in his mouth.

"Not me!"

"Tell me these things before hand!" Phoebus yelled. "And he says I can't talk right. Wait, what about that girl who left something of hers at his place?"

"That's who he's interested in."

"Poor guy," Phoebus mused. "Happens to lots of men with girls like her. You think all that stuff she says to you is true. I wonder what her rates are, though…"

Gaetan shot him a spiteful glance.

"What?" Phoebus asked innocently. "If he really wants her in the long run, he can have her. But if that's her job, there's nothing really wrong with me at least asking."

"My mother was a prostitute," Gaetan said, and steered her horse away.

"Yeah but—Oh sweet Jesus! I'm sorry! Get back here! I said I was sorry! Hey!"


	13. Jolly Holiday

February left quietly and March tramped slush and mud into houses. April poked its head in and wondered b everyone was in such a bad mood. To make up for it, it decided to help out during a party. The sun shone brightly and unhindered in the sky, polished to an extra blueness in the morning and the month did its best to be warm as well. And that was the day before the party, as the month got ready to do its best. At first it all seemed so perfect. Moods began to spring up and so did flowers. Claude was off his crutches and slowly acclimating to his horse again. He spent his short rides taking his job back and sending Gaetan to do more chores or patrol somewhere else in the city. Phoebus was actually glad Frollo was back, because now the man was reticent as ever. Clopin was in a better mood with the upcoming festival and cheerfully ignorant that now that Giselle had given birth she could return to her more profitable occupation and she was happier for the money.

However, moods began to sour just before the festival. Clopin wondered what Giselle would think. He hadn't brought her any money since January and he had other people taking care of their baby. Giselle wondered if he'd be just like the last man she suffered nine months for just to lose the child before. Frollo was worried that now that flowers were around, he'd have to try to sort out more of Esmeralda's tangled web of words and he wondered if it was worth it and why she was still in his head. Phoebus realized that Esmeralda and Claude were not as 'close' as he thought, but was thankful he learned it without opening his big dumb mouth. He was also glad he never asked Esmeralda about her rates, but didn't think any of this would end well. Gaetan was bored being stuck playing errand boy and had to wait for hours for Esmeralda to take a break from dancing.

When she finally stopped and the crowds dispersed, Gaetan approached. She held her head up high and did her best to approach the woman in a dignified manner. "Miss?"

"Oh, it's you, little…um, what was your name again?" Esmeralda asked, bending down.

Gaetan was sure the woman was putting her breasts in her face on purpose. "Uh, my master said these are for you," she said, producing a bunch of flowers, tied with Esmeralda's scarf, from behind her back.

"Oh how sweet!" she exclaimed, taking the bouquet of weeds Gaetan had collected after Frollo had told her 'flowers are flowers, go get them yourself.' Esmeralda failed to notice the rosary tied around the bouquet as well.

"Um…" Gaetan started and cringed. If this didn't go well, she'd get the blame. "He was wondering if you'd join him tomorrow at the festival by the cathedral doors after church and…uh, he wanted to know if there were any accommodations he should make to please you."

"Eh?" Esmeralda asked. "Oh, uh, I just want a stroll and a simple chat. Anything else would be too scandalous."

"…Yeah." Gaetan said. If this was romance, then Gaetan was marrying for money and having a lifelong headache. Or forgetting the whole thing entirely. "I'd best be going now, miss."

Esmeralda watched the boy leave and smiled. She looked at the flowers and chuckled. If he insisted on flowers, no wonder it took him so long to get this far. If she actually gave a damn about the man, it would be sweet.

"Look Djali," she said, pulling the scarf off the flowers. "Munchies!"

………….

April was a delicate month and could not take the stress of everyone's worry. The weather broke down and the wind picked up and the month sniffled in loneliness.

Clopin had moved his puppet stand out of the square and no one else was concerned about finding where he hid it. A story about someone wandering past his friends and saying 'Nope, not dead yet,' was rather boring no matter how you put it. If you made a mistake, fine; fix it and get over it. No reason to throw a party.

It was the only story anyone was allowed to show this day, but in his muddled mind he did have a reason to celebrate. Maybe.

"Giselle!" he happily cried, pouncing in front of her. "For you!" he said, merrily producing a sorry bunch of stems with a few smashed and gooey flowers. "Prince kind of ate them."

"Prince?" she asked, hugging the piled of plants to her breasts. "You named our son Prince?"

"I like that name," he said, somewhat sheepishly.

The baby noticed that they were talking about him without involving him in the conversation and started to scream.

"He does that a lot," Clopin said.

"Oh, come here, Prince," Giselle said, and took her baby from his father. She began cooing nonsense at the child, who quieted and smiled. When she spoke real words, Clopin almost didn't catch them, or the fact that they were to him. "Well, if the priest didn't think it was too silly a name, then he's Prince."

"Uh…." he said, trying to think of a way out.

"Our son isn't baptized?" she yelled, while the person in question untied her stomacher and shoved the laces in his mouth.

"Oh that," Clopin answered, only to realize it was a bad answer. "I'm…I'm not really a fan of that. It sounds a bit too much like drowning the baby and—"

"Why is our baby living in sin?"

"He's not, he's living in a crib." That wasn't the right answer either.

"What kind of life are we giving this child?" she asked, pulling the laces out of the baby's mouth. "We're not married; he's not baptized. What kind of future is that for him?"

This time Clopin kept his mouth shut. He was about to say he never had any of those things and he was fine… if being poor, often in trouble with the law, and a stressed single parent counted as 'fine.' He doubted they did, but marriage sounded a lot less dangerous than… wait, married? "I'll let you fix one if I can fix the other,"

"Oh, Clopin, but neither of us has any money—"

"A gypsy wedding!" he exclaimed happily. Most of him was convinced she'd say yes, while a tiny part of his mind was praying for it instead. "We don't need money for that!"

"This is… hardly traditional…" Giselle said. This time she didn't know how to answer, or which ones were the wrong ones. "I mean, I don't have anything for a dowry…"

"Oh, we don't have dowries, we have bride prices. It may take a while still, but I'm sure I can find something eventually. It may be a bit late…I mean, if you agree to that. Besides, I don't want to be traditional, I'm not marrying someone fourteen!"

Giselle looked like she was about to cry.

"Is it something I said?" he asked.

"My daughter would have turned fourteen by now." Giselle just stared at Prince sorrowfully.

"Giselle I…" He sighed. Everything was the wrong answer about that one. He'd even asked one of the soldiers and nearly been arrested for 'suspicious behavior.' "I promise. I'll find out what happened to her, no matter what it takes. In fact… that's my gift to you for marriage. If you'll accept it."

"You mean it?" Giselle asked.

"I mean it," he said proudly. "In fact, I may have a friend in high places soon. Maybe she can help. What do you say?"

"I'd say it all sounds wonderful. But I'd also say we are getting this child baptized."

"Oh, very well," he conceded, his good mood not a bit hurt by it. "But no wells. I don't trust kids near wells."

"We can do it today!" she said happily. "Our boy baptized on Easter! How special!"

"Yes… well… can it be a bit less special and we do it after everyone leaves the church?"

"Why?"

"Because of them!" Clopin whispered, pointing to Frollo and his boy—whatever his real name was—walking towards the church. "I hope you don't mind being fashionably late." Clopin pulled Giselle around the corner to hide. 'Well, almost whatever it takes,' Clopin told himself. 'I am not crossing either of them. I doubt they knew where she went anyway.'

…………

Claude sent Gaetan to go watch the festival. By 'Go watch' he meant 'Go be bored with something somewhere else and I don't care if it's Sunday.' By 'festival' he meant Phoebus. Not only did people still have pagan fertility thoughts in their heads this say, but everything about Phoebus was a reason for him not to be around him while with Esmeralda.

She had not yet shown up and he was already regretting his plan. When she came skipping along, followed by her equally happy goat, he really regretted his plan.

"Isn't it a beautiful day?" she said.

Gaetan had reminded him all week that it was important, above all else, to be polite. He had no idea how to be polite to anyone, let alone a gypsy. When he was a boy, he just kept silent. Now he yelled at people and they kept quiet. He'd already ruined conversations when they'd just started decades ago and he was pretty sure he'd do it again. "I think it's going to rain," he said as nicely as he could. Oh course it was going to rain. What idiot would think it was a nice day?

"I like rain," she said. That explained that then.

"It's so nice of you to take time off just for me," she said. "You must be so busy!"

"It's Easter Sunday—" he caught himself before he went further. No doubt she had no idea the significance of religious holidays and yelling at her wasn't going to get him anywhere in the long run. "Of course I can spend a holiday with you. Come, we shouldn't dally on the steps. Perhaps we could walk somewhere?"

"Where to?" she asked.

God damn her to Hell, that wasn't the answer she was supposed to give. It was easy to listen to her talk if he never had to pay attention and reply all the time. If he wanted to have a real conversation, he'd tell her what to say. "I was wondering if you had anywhere you hoped to go today." 'Just pick something!'

"A stroll would be nice. We could just wander, but, oh, we shouldn't stray too far! What would people think?"

'Obviously, they'd think the same stupid thoughts everyone is thinking about me,' Claude thought. Why did people get such moronic ideas about him and every woman he went near? He killed and tortured people in jail. When did people stop worrying about that and start making up all these idiotic things about him that involved him not being a good Catholic? "Wandering aimlessly it is then. You lead."

Esmeralda looped her arm in his and led him through streets along the fringes of the festival. At first he was angry, assuming she was tugging him along like a toddler that would get lost easily, and then he just decided to put up with it, glad that she hadn't tried to talk to him about knitting or ponies or colors. At least not yet.

The two ducked into a series of alleys and she began to lead him just off the edge of the festival.

"I would love to get to know you better," she said, putting another hand on his arm for reasons he couldn't fathom.

Claude wondered if she was trying the same tactic he was. He'd already suffered the gypsies teasing him about losing his hair and he was certainly not going to give them any more embarrassing information to play with like a kid with matches. No doubt some lunatic was asking about his birthday again. "I really don't know what to say," he said. He said it because honestly he didn't.

He noticed Djali still tagging along beside them, skipping back and forth in front of them as if to trip them now and then. "Your goat is… trained, right?" He winced. That had to be the stupidest thing in all of history to say.

"Oh, Djali's a good goat, don't worry," she said, letting go of him and calling the goat over to be picked up. "Aren't you, Djali? You're going to be extra nice to him, now aren't you?" she asked, petting the goat and leaning it toward Frollo. Frollo just stood there, hoping goats were like horses. You waited for them to react to you, and then you reacted to them. Confusing a horse could get you trampled and he presumed confusing a goat could get you eaten.

Djali shot out of Esmeralda's arms and leapt away from Frollo, nearly knocking her over in the process.

Claude grabbed her arm as she began to fall and the goat scampered away in fright. "I don't think I meant to…do whatever it is I did," Claude said, releasing Esmeralda's arm now that she could stand on her own. He wondered how much damage a rampaging goat could do.

"He'll get used to you."

Claude raised an eyebrow at 'he,' but kept it to himself. He was already doing badly and it was a wonder she still stood near him, which, for some reason, he was actually enjoying when he didn't have to flounder for replies. Besides, she'd figure it out someday.

"Do you have any pets?"

"I have an apprentice, he's sort of like a pet," he said. Good Saints, he was bad at this. "I own a horse." That wasn't a good answer either. Women didn't like horses, they liked ponies. Pretty ponies they could put ribbons on and brush their hair.

"Really?" she asked happily. "What kind?"

"Um…large…black…it's a destrier, but… I'm sorry, I don't really breed horses, I just ride them."

"One of those huge warhorses?" she asked.

"Well, I never fought in the war, but he'd be happy to join it if I let him… I mean…um, yes. One of those horses."

"Oh, I've always wanted to ride one of those!" she exclaimed happily. "It must be so exciting for you!"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," they heard. Both of them looked up to see Phoebus standing at the mouth of the alley. "Sir, can I speak with you?"

Before Claude could reply 'no,' Esmeralda spoke up. "I shouldn't keep you." Kissing him on the neck—she aimed for the cheek but wasn't tall enough—she ran off, her bangles clanging loudly.

"How come you get her and all I get is some guy your age?" Phoebus complained.

"Is that why you chased her away?" Claude asked. "Could people stop being complicated for one day?"

"Actually, I just wanted to talk to you in private about her, sir"

"Phoebus, go ask Gaetan if you're curious."

"Sir, I meant I'm surprised she's still alive."

"Oh, that," Claude replied. "Phoebus before you open your mouth, you might want to think very hard—"

"Consider it a favor," Phoebus said.

"Harder than that," Claude said, his face in his hand.

"You don't kill her and I'll leave you alone."

"What, she gets to go armed and I don't?" Claude asked, taking his hand away. At least Phoebus was finally being concise.

"Sure you can," Phoebus said. "Not like there's a real difference with you; you could kill someone with string."

"Should I take that as a compliment?" Claude asked.

"Sir, at least try to just arrest her if you have to."

"Fine."

"Really try."

"Yes, yes, yes, I understand. Now go away. It's not like I'll ever see her again after this anyway," Claude said angrily, shooing the captain away. "Go get drunk or something, just go away."

Phoebus reluctantly left, even though there was no one else in the alley that he could see.

"Well, that was short lived," Claude told himself. No wonder people got betrothed. Well, too late now for everything.

He leaned against a wall and thought. He stood there for a while, wondering what he was going to do. Looking for the woman was out of the question, she could be anywhere and if he asked if people had seen her, they'd think he was mad, in either interpretation of the word, and he'd get no help. He could find some way of annoying the captain, but he couldn't think of anything. Riding his horse was out of the question with the streets crowded like this. He had almost decided to just go home and read for the day when something began tugging on his tunic.

Claude looked down to see the goat tugging at the hem of his gown. "Got lost, did you?"

The goat bleated at him.

"No, I told him to go and apologize," Claude heard behind him.

Startled, he spun around and nearly hit Esmeralda in doing so. "Young…woman, please don't do that!" He wanted the whereabouts to the Court of Miracles so he had to be polite, but he wasn't about to call her a lady.

"You really don't like festivals, do you?" she asked, giggling.

"No, not really," he answered honestly. He wondered what was so funny, though. "What? What'd I do?"

"You'd rather sit around here than go have fun on a holiday," she said. "But you always go to them."

'That's not funny, it's painful!' he thought. "I have to go. I am a public official and I have to oversee things in case something happens to anyone. I just never had an apprentice before to take over for me."

"I'm sure there's something you want to do out there," Esmeralda said, shoving a pile of white flowers at him. "Look, I got free flowers."

"Well, that is something, granted I never got free flowers," he said. "But I'm sorry, I'm just not interested in this or any other festival."

"Here," she said, shoving the flowers into his hands.

"What--?"

"Feed them to Djali. He'll like you," she said. The goat was already trying to crawl up his legs to devour the bouquet. "Go on," she said.

Tentatively, Claude took a few blooms and bent down to hand them to the goat. He thought it was like feeding a horse, but before he could flatten his hand, Djali lunged at the flowers and slurped them out of his hand. Djali was skilled at not hurting hands that held food, but did leave a considerable amount of slobber.

Esmeralda was nice to be around when she made sense—the Good Lord knew why—and he'd already scared the goat away once. Besides, his horse was known to leave saliva on his hand as well. He hoped he didn't offend her too much by wiping his hand on the goat before handing it another several flowers.

"There must be something you want to do," she said.

"Nope." Oops.

"We could get more flowers," she said. "But I don't think Djali should eat that much in one sitting. Let's see, there's dancing."

"Esmeralda, I do not dance. At all. Ever."

"You're just being modest," she said.

"No, I am being serious," he said. "Quite frankly, I am not allowed."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Oh, blast," he yelled. He stepped in it worse than Phoebus ever did. He threw the flowers on the ground and stood up. As the goat danced about, happily eating up the strewn plants, he stalked off, wondering what rumors this would create. Wonderful. He'd been outdone by a farm animal.

"Wait," she said, stepping over Djali and standing on her tiptoes to grab his shoulder. "You can tell me, I promise."

Claude looked around. She and the goat were the only people he could see. "Someone is going to die if anyone hears about this," he said through gritted teeth. "I am serious."

"You're always serious," she said. This time, she was serious too. No giggling or incomprehensible sentences.

He sighed. He really didn't even want to remember this. "My mother forbade me from dancing ever again after I embarrassed her when I was young. I'd rather respect her wishes." He also rather not think about it. Just the mention of that time brought back memories of the beating and humiliation he suffered not only because his feet went the wrong way at the wrong time but also because his hand grabbed the worst thing to grab to steady himself at any time. It wasn't his fault, she had asked him to dance even when he politely declined and she was the one who stuffed her chest.

"I can teach you," Esmeralda said. "It wouldn't be going against her wishes to try and learn, would it?"

"It would if I were seen in public doing so," he said.

"Well, then we can do it in private where no one can see you," she said. "I know a perfect place!"

"Are you sure about this?" he asked as she pulled him along. He was very certain this would all be much more enjoyable if she just tried to kill him then and there.


	14. I wanna be like you

They entered the church through a side door and true to Esmeralda's word no one was in the transept. The aisle was completely devoid of anyone else and the darkness was soft, like a pillow or the fur of a cat, warm and delicate and smooth, not the usually haunting darkness of ghostly shadows that stalked you, watching your every move and making you feel that even your breathing was unholy.

Esmeralda thought the place was beautiful; a starlit sky to walk upon and all it lacked was a moon. To Djali, candles should be eaten, not burned and especially not out of reach on metal poles. The same went for the flowers in the incense. To Claude, the cathedral was a house of God and everything in it was conducted so. He wondered what if he'd have to pay penance for being dragged inside by a heathen who was certainly not dressed appropriately for the weather, let alone anything remotely holy.

"This is a perfect place to dance!" she said.

"I don't think I should be doing any of the kind of dancing you do," he said.

"I mean court dancing, silly!" she said, batting at his arm. "Like what proper ladies do."

"How in the world would you know how to do that?" he asked. No skills, no title, no literacy, no attention to God, and almost no clothes and she could outdo him in something that was mandatory for him? The world was unfair.

"I have many skills," she said, a bit too playfully for Claude's peace of mind.

"I don't think I want to know what they are," he said. "I don't think I want to do this, either."

"Then why are we here?"

"Because you wouldn't let go of my arm."

"We can go outside and find something else to do," she said.

He considered that. "You had better not talk about this to anyone. Ever."

………………….

Claude wasn't sure what to think about his lessons. They weren't going well and he wasn't surprised. He was, however, embarrassed. He'd never been very sorry he couldn't dance. Esmeralda had good reason to keep quiet and she actually spent time to encourage him to try again and even told him stories about how she had learned to dance (though they were nothing like his sorry attempts or pathetic disasters). What he didn't like was that any idiot could fall off an animal, but he was unfortunate and ungraceful enough to be falling off the floor.

He had no idea how she kept convincing him to try again, or how she convinced him he'd balance better in closed position dancing, or how she convinced him that she would lead (and thus take the man's role in the dance, he noticed).

It took several flustered minutes just for her to properly show him where everyone's hands should be. This time he was glad he could use the excuse that he was off-balance, for it kept her hands off him and his off her.

"Is this even appropriate?" he asked, then blanched. Not only was it too late now, but it was probably the wrong thing to say. Not to mention he had asked it to his mother and been struck with her book above the ear.

"Refined ladies and gentlemen do it," Esmeralda said. "and they're proper and dignified all the time. It would only be inappropriate if you think about it that way." He wasn't even going to start arguing that logic. "Now, I put my hand on your waist…um…that should be here more or less." She put her hand against his ribs instead, never actually having found where his waist was under the shapeless gown and he didn't want to help her. "Now your hand goes on my shoulder… no, you have to get a bit closer." She had stopped counting how many times she explained these things with almost the exact same words and the exact same problems. "Now bring your feet in a little closer—closer to me."

She had to steady him before he tripped and they both wondered how he could so easily to hold his own in a fight against three men on solid ice in the streets and yet he had so much difficulty at this, even when he was just supposed to be standing still.

"Okay, my hand goes—" Claude yelped. "Uh, too low, sorry. Here, put your hand back on my shoulder. Now, we step to the left—your left. You just follow."

Surprisingly, this time, the two managed a step of a dance successfully. However, this part of dancing was made of two steps, and as Esmeralda took a larger step Claude did his best to follow, only for his foot to put itself in front of the path of hers. She tripped and fell forward, knocking him backwards. In his sad attempt to balance, his elbow met painfully with tall candelabra, which also lost its balance.

In the end of it all, Claude could barely make out someone's screams of "What's going on back there?" over a pounding headache caused by the floor telling his head how much it objected to being landed on. The goat, which Esmeralda had told to be a lookout, ran over and began bleating in his ear.

"I heard you the first time!" he yelled as Esmeralda tried to shove herself up.

"I think I'm pinned," she said, and tried to reach backwards to reach the candelabra that now lay across her back.

Claude tried to reach to help, but only grazed it with his fingertips. "Yes, I know, go away!" he yelled, shoving the goat away and shoving himself up on his elbows to a sitting position. Esmeralda's head slid from his chest and landed in his lap. He leaned over and pulled the candelabra up off her back, only for someone to yank it out of his hands.

"Frollo, I said 'favor' not 'miracle!'" the archdeacon yelled. "Ick! I don't even wan to know what you were using this for." He threw the candelabra to the side.

Esmeralda by now managed to sit up. She pushed her hair out of her face and smiled sheepishly.

"Frollo when I told you I wished you'd change your mind about gypsies, this was not what I meant!" The archdeacon kicked him in the back, knocking Claude's hat over his face. "And I don't even want to know why a goat is involved!" The archdeacon helped Esmeralda stand and pulled her away from Claude. "Get out of my cathedral and never come back!"

Claude sadly shoved his hat back and stood up. Silently, he walked away into the darkness, listening to the archdeacon try to console Esmeralda about her 'terrifying ordeal.' If anyone deserved consolation, it was him. He was the one that hit his head.

Now everything was a lot more complicated than trying to figure out how to get her out of his head or to find the Court of Miracles. Just as he feared, she had cost him his soul. He just didn't expect it to happen out of stupidity rather than malice.

It wasn't fair. He had done his best to be a good catholic. He may have failed in some of his parent's expectations of him, but he had always respected and honored them. He went to mass when he could. He went to confession. He was baptized, confirmed and had communion. He never swore. Up until now he never let himself dwell on unholy thoughts—and even it was never a matter of allowing himself to do it for he was always shocked when he realized what he was doing—and he made sure he paid for it in strict prayer. He even paid for killing that gypsy woman on the cathedral steps even though he still didn't know what he did wrong. Now none of that mattered thanks to accidentally falling on a large piece of metal.

It wouldn't be the last time he'd have problems staying on his feet in the cathedral that day. As he pushed the doors opened, his foot caught on something that bleated to tell him to look here he was going.

He managed to catch his hat and to his surprise, someone else caught him before he slammed into the door. Skinny arms pulled him back to his feet from a bit too low around his hips for his taste. "Let go, I can walk," he said, trying to shove her away. All he hit was air and the goat was still standing in his way, preventing him from leaving. "Haven't you done enough damage today?" he asked. "And stop standing behind me, I don't like it."

Esmeralda slipped under his still outstretched arm and leaned on him.

"That was not what I meant," he said. "Do you have any idea—"

"I fixed all that," she said.

"This is not a joke! I—"

"No, really. I talked to him," she said. "I cleared it all up. He said he wouldn't mention your mother if you never told anyone anything about his."

Claude raised an eyebrow. Bringing the archdeacon's family into this wasn't some lie she could just make up.

"Um, what--?"

"Maybe I'll let you know later," he said.

A loud thunderclap and a flash of bright light scared Djali to hide between its mistress's legs.

Claude walked out of the church into a heavy downpour and Esmeralda insisted on clinging to his side. He lifted his cloak over her head and looked at her, utterly perplexed. He felt rather uncomfortable with her holding onto him. She wasn't hurting him and her hands were actually in innocent places now. All she wanted was to stay out of the rain and look at him. She had even gone to the trouble of clearing his name with the archdeacon, something Phoebus might not do if ordered, so why would a gypsy be nice enough to do that for him for free? It was actually pleasant with her being around, he found, now that she had thrown away the silly idea of talking like a delirious poet. That was exactly what was making him uncomfortable. Whatever was going on, shouldn't. He only wished he knew what it was.

Esmeralda herself wondered what to say. Usually she didn't have to because all the men she had been with either did all the talking for both of them or were too preoccupied with her chest—or taking her shirt off of it—to listen anyway. Why did she have to get the only straight man that would look into her eyes when she needed him to be like all the other slobs in the world?

Looking into his eyes, she realized why some spoke of his gaze being made of the coldest, frozen ice, while others swore there was hell's own fire behind them. His eyes were a pale grey, picking up colors around them rather than having their own when they could. They took in the dark grey of the clouds and the stone around him, and the shining black of her hair, creating a kaleidoscope of sad darkness around his watchful pupils.

She reached up and touched his face, hoping it would make up for her silence. He tried to pull away, but some part of him wanted to stay put, even though it seemed afraid for some reason. His gaze fled from her face and tried to watch her hand. To her surprise, his face was smooth and soft, feeling far younger than she had originally thought. Age had not worn his skin away from his face, but chiseled it closer, etching lines into firm flesh instead of weathering away at it like leather.

"You really are a terrible dancer," she said to him.

"I know," he agreed, grimacing.

"That's okay. I'm a terrible cook."

"Well then, I know who to blame if I'm ever poisoned," he said.

She laughed and he wondered if it was all that funny. He also wondered why her hand was still there.

"Well, here's your rain," he said, looking up at the clouds. "Is there somewhere I should walk you to?"

"No," she said. "I actually have to go meet a friend." She stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on his cheek. "I had fun today."

Claude reached up and touched his cheek tentatively as he watched her run off and disappear into the city… his city. He wondered if he wanted to allow her in the city. He wondered if he ever wanted to see her again, even if he'd never have her Court of Miracles. He wondered if he should go home and wash his face or if he'd feel sorry if the rain washed it away.

…………..

Claude threw the door open and walked across the hall of his house, ignoring the puddles he left on the floor Gaetan had nearly finished cleaning. He threw himself into his chair and rubbed his aching head. "Is it considered successful on one of these excursions of you're nearly excommunicated?"

"It would depend upon why," she said, starting to wipe up the puddles.

"I'll tell you when you're older… maybe… probably not."

"Then yes."

"What do I do now?"

"More flowers?" she asked.

"Again? Merciful Lord, when do I marry her?"

Gaetan moved to another puddle.

"I asked you a question."

"I don't know, I've never been courted," she answered.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because I didn't want anything to do with it."

"Good reason," he conceded. He didn't want her thinking about romance short of explaining the basic formula to him. Admittedly his mother had been educated and upper-class and never managed to explain it, but his mother was fluent in the language of women and Gaetan was better suited and more skilled at speaking in the tongue of men. He preferred to think of her as a naïve to the language, rather than a skilled outsider. "But surely even your mother had the brains to at least think of marriage for one of you."

"My mother wanted to marry that new man, but neither of them had any money."

"Well then why would she get married to him?" And exactly how did a stupid woman like that have a smart kid like Gaetan and why wasn't she born a boy?

"She wanted to get married for love," Gaetan said.

"That's not why you get married," Claude said. He was going to have to set a lot of things right for this kid. "You get married to get things you want, not because you love someone. Think of the anarchy you'd get if people married because of that! My mother wanted money and my father wanted status. I want her to tell me the Court of Miracles and if I marry her I can make her. She wants… well, I'm not sure what she wants. I hope it's not kids."

………….

Days later, Claude had sent Phoebus off with Gaetan and he was about to settle his horse back in its stable when he met up with Esmeralda again.

He had turned to put his leg on part of the fence to rub his pained knee and when looked up, she was standing on the other side of the fence. Claude was uncomfortable again and this time she wasn't even touching him. She wasn't even looking at him. He felt pressed to say something and obligated to stick around.

Instead of doing either, he pulled on the reigns of his horse before it tried to protect him from an attacking gypsy.

"How do you do that?" Claude asked.

"Trade secret," she answered.

"Where's your goat?" Claude asked, still pulling on the reigns. Hopefully his horse hadn't killed it already.

"He's hiding," she said. "I like your horse."

"Yes, well—Down!—He doesn't seem to like you."

"I'd love to ride a horse like that."

"And I'm sure he'd like to eat a person like you—I said down!"

Snorting, the destrier stopped. The horse, despite what Claude had planned, thought of him as a friend rather than master. It helped out as best it could. It protected the human that took care of it, and took him where he wanted to go. The poor human was practically crippled with only two slow legs and such a small size. His friend did seem to try and make up for it with his opposable thumbs though. For some reason, his friend was pulling him away and acting mean and confusing in his attempts to scare the threatening newcomer off.

"Good horse," Claude told it and it held still.

The horse leaned over to sniff Esmeralda. His friend didn't even act this way about that little girl he often smelled of. This was one of those strange people his friend tended not to like. If he was going to sit still and let her come near his friend, he was going to know as much as he could about her.

"Just stand still; don't move at all," Claude told her.

Esmeralda didn't move. The horse's head was bigger than hers and she didn't doubt that it could eat it in one bite. After meticulously smelling her, the horse gave a disapproving shove with its head and backed away to sniff Claude.

"He's not really one for other people, I'm sorry," Claude said, petting the horse. He really wanted to tell her to go away and leave his horse alone. He didn't want to be sorry. His horse could like and not like who it wanted.

Esmeralda watched quietly as the destrier insisted on sniffing Claude's nose. The horse wanted to promise its friend that he wasn't mad at him. Yes, his best friend in the world still loved him very much, proven by letting him intimately exchange breath. There were too many smells on his friend for the destirer to leave the newcomer alone. His friend liked her, in more ways than one, that was understandable in allowing her to be close by. But there were other smells. He smelled of anger towards her, but even more there was fear. The horse moved to stand in between the two. He didn't know why his friend was angry or afraid, but he wasn't about to let this newcomer hurt him.

The horse didn't understand, but if he did, or if he knew Claude didn't know what he was feeling himself, it would have laughed. The horse gave a snort to tell her she could only be around if his friend continued to smell like he liked her.

"What's his name?" she asked.

"I just call him Horse," Claude said, petting the horse's mane. "Some soldiers named my last horse Snowball and they call this one the same thing because he looks the same."

"I'd at least name him Biscuit," she said.

"My horse is not to be called Biscuit!" Claude said.

The horse agreed.

"Well, mine always come out black," she said. "Maybe I can ride him someday."

The horse turned away to show he didn't like her and hoped she'd go away. He didn't want her riding him.

"Esmeralda, my horse is not a pony!"

"I know. I hate ponies."

Claude looked at the horse, which was now sniffing his pockets. "He goes quite fast."

"I'm sure you wouldn't let me fall," Esmeralda said.

"No, I'd let nothing happen to you," he said. "and I am sure I could have all the accommodations prepared within a week if you're willing to help."

…………………

"Mister!" a kid yelled at the puppetmaster, who was draped across the ledge of the cart and was trying to sleep. He hadn't slept all night, so afternoon would have to do. One screaming little kid had kept him up all night and now another one wanted the job. "Mister!" the kid yelled again.

"What?" Clopin complained groggily as he was forced to wake up.

"Is there a story today?" the kid asked.

"Yeah, sure, here's a story: Once upon a time two people fell in love and had a baby. They were already too poor to get married, and they could hardly feed the baby. The baby didn't understand and cried a lot and kept anyone from getting any sleep. One day the father had been driven so insane by trying to care for himself and the baby and worrying about the mother that when some little kid woke him up from the only sleep he had been able to get in days, he strangled the kid and got to sleep in a nice happy jail cell. The end. Go away."

"That's not a very good story," the kid said.

"Look kid," Clopin said angrily as he grabbed the kid's shirt. "Unless you've got some miracle cure for colic, there is absolutely nothing that could stop me from wringing your puny little neck and hiding your body just to get another few hours of sleep!"

"Nothing?" an all too familiar voice asked in an all too cheerful tone.

Clopin screamed and jumped, releasing the kid in his surprise. The child ran off crying.

"You are the last person I'd expect to stop me from doing that, Frollo," Clopin muttered. Why was it that every time the minister was a in a good mood, he had to ruin Clopin's?

"Actually, I was hoping to see some entertainment, but he's run off. More's the pity."

"I'm almost starting to understand drowning kids," Clopin said, pathetically falling across the ledge again. He hoped he could get back to sleep, arrested or not.

"Too bad," Claude casually commented.

Clopin knew the man was just here to because he couldn't find anyone else to annoy.

"Now the show just doesn't hold up without the second act."

Clopin felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He tried to wave them off, but they pounded on his head. That didn't seem very in character for Frollo, so he looked up. A gypsy woman slapped him in the face, screamed at him in Spanish, thrust Prince into his arms, and stormed off.

"Yeah, well knowing your dog, it deserved it!" Clopin yelled back. Maybe if he ignored Frollo, he'd go away. It took a long time, but it had worked with the plague.

Prince immediately started howling and screaming.

"Here, shut up and eat the hat," Clopin said, shoving his hat at the child.

Prince happily giggled as he played with the hat for a few seconds before spitting up all over it. Then the baby went back to playing with it and sticking a cleaner part in its mouth. Clopin sighed and set the baby and the hat down on the floor.

"Now that was entertaining," Claude said, tossing a coin onto the ledge. "Do you plan on an encore?"

How in the world did this man survive raising Quasimodo for twenty years on his own and still find time to go around making everyone else more miserable than he was? If only there was a way to just once turn the table on that horrible man—"You want an encore? I'll give you an encore!" Clopin screamed and grabbed the minister's robes.

"What?" Claude yelped. "Get off me! Let go! I'll have you arrested!"

"Good, I can get some sleep for once!"

"I'll have you tortured!"

"My baby beat you to it!"

"I'll have you killed!"

"Good, you can take care of him!" Clopin's grip tightened. "You've taken care of kids before, I'm sure you know what that kind of mania can do to a man!"

Claude didn't reply. He grabbed the roof of the puppet stand and tried to shove the puppeteer off with his foot. "What do you want?" he yelled, finding that not even that would budge the man.

"Teach me how to take care of kids!"

"What?" Claude asked. He was about to call for the guards, but this would be the worst situation he could conceive of to call attention to himself. "Absolutely not! I don't want anything to do with there being more of you people! Let go!"

"I'll give you anything!"

"There is nothing I want from you!" Aside from him letting go, of course. Going for his dagger would unbalance him and he'd be dragged closer to the gypsy. He was already too close for comfort and he didn't doubt that he would be forced to take on another child if he killed the man. "Let go!"

"You can marry Esmeralda! I'll do what ever stupidity you people do to give her away and everything!"

Claude paused for a moment, but still kept his foot where it was to keep away from the screaming, frantic gypsy. "You do know the laws we have about marriage?"

"Yes, I know all about your barbaric customs!" Clopin yelled. "Now do you see how desperate I am?" He also knew any marriage was null and void without consent of both parties. The man could try for a million yeas and he'd never even get Esmeralda in a church with him.

"You'd be signing a contract," Claude said. "I don't even think you can spell a Q."

"Then show me how!"

"Fine, fine. Now let go."

"You promise?" Clopin demanded, tugging harder.

"Yes, now let go of me, you're going to rip something."

Clopin let go and he toppled forward and Claude struggled to take his leg out of the window of the cart.

"Meet me at the Palace of Justice tomorrow at noon. If you can read clocks." Claude said, smoothing down his gown.

"The Palace of Justice?" Clopin yelped.

Claude immediately backed away, thinking he was about to be attacked again. "No wonder your child is so loud."

"I'll be tortured."

"Oh course you will," Claude said, adjusting his hat. "Just not by me." Claude left for home before anyone else could get him entangled in yet another inconceivable mess.

"Is there a Q in my name?" Clopin asked himself.


	15. A most befuddling thing

This time Claude approached Esmeralda. Neither of them spoke of it, but it had taken two hours for him to build up the courage to come close and actually start a conversation instead of just standing and watching. Esmeralda wished the man would talk to his little apprentice or, better yet, his captain on talking to women.

Esmeralda wasn't sure what to think of this outing. He said very little as he daintily let her take his arm and they strolled down the streets. All he said before they reached the shop was that she needed to be properly attired for his plans. After they got to the tailor shop, he barely said anything else, merely saying that proper women wore shoes and more concealing dresses. He said he was going for modesty, not fashion and told the tailors to do what they could with her figure within a week and that he'd pay when he came back. She didn't understand why he felt he could just leave, abandoning her to psychotic women armed with needles and pins who insisted in tugging at her and arranging her in unnatural positions to measure her in places she had no idea ever needed to be measured. She also didn't know her figure needed 'doing with.' She thought he liked it the way it was.

She pouted, wondering if proper women needed all this just to go out to dinner and if not, why couldn't she have thought of asking for that instead?

…………

Claude wasn't quite comfortable with the present situation regarding the judicial process in Paris. Mostly, it wasn't happening. He'd followed Gaetan and she proved herself competent and alert. Phoebus was competent in his own right and his communication problem was absent when it came to taking and giving real orders. The only snag with trusting the law with Phoebus was that he was distracted by young women like a cat with a piece of string. Claude was convinced Phoebus would even start batting at them enthusiastically if he weren't around. He had tried letting the man learn his lesson by not rescuing him from irate husbands, but the captain was apparently a slow learner at everything.

Something was odd and he knew what it was, but he didn't know where to look. This was Paris, a giant city of a million of the second and third worst people he could think of. The third were idiots, and that was a worldwide plague. You could never be free of those. The second were the gypsies and as much as he tried, their numbers didn't seem to be going down. From what he'd seen yesterday, the two were interbreeding. The first were the English and thankfully most of them had been chased away. But with such a huge amount of these misbegotten people, why were his cells so empty? If no one was trying anything mean, what was keeping anyone from being stupid?

Something suspicious was up if people were trying so hard to prevent anyone from being stupid. Somewhere, people were plotting something, and they had to wait to strike because they had their hands on the mouths and ears of idiots. Could it be the gypsies again? No, they were never this organized and as much as they guarded their whereabouts and any of their friends, they could not possibly rally together to try something.

It was probably that man and his baby keeping everyone up and they needed more sleep to try to pick pockets.

Confident that the gypsies were under control, proud that he'd soon find their Court of Miracles, but still wondering what was going on, Claude went to the Palace of Justice, for once dreading it himself.

…………..

"You're two hours late," Claude yelled as Clopin's arrival was fanfared by his child's screams. Didn't he have one place in here that didn't echo?

"What?" Clopin yelled, then went immediately silent as he wandered into the room where the minister was sitting on a barrel, angrily covering his ears.

As much as Claude liked the fact that this gypsy's first reaction to seeing him was to panic, it wasn't going to get him anywhere. He stood up and the gypsy jumped back, only making things more difficult. Using a much more careful strategy this time to steal the baby, Claude flipping the man's soggy hat over his eyes and then tore the baby from the man's hands as he was distracted. Clopin shoved his hat back angrily, only to see Claude bouncing the baby in his arms. Clopin smirked as the baby continued to scream. Undaunted, Claude just set the baby against his shoulder and waved the veil of his hat at the baby. The baby's loud screams turned into slightly less loud exclamations of wonder, then burbled away as it tried to grab the red fabric. "Yes, yes, there we go," Claude said, bouncing the baby again. "There, how is that so difficult?"

"How is that so easy?" Clopin retorted.

"What is her name?" Claude asked.

"It's a boy," Clopin muttered angrily. It was a very handsome baby boy. How dare anyone, especially a man in a dress, accuse his son of being a girl?

"How should I know, you people stab everyone's ears with these things," Claude protested, batting at Prince's large hoop earrings. He wanted to say that the hair, which had never been cut, wasn't a good indication either, but he'd never seen a gypsy who tried to follow that norm.

Prince grabbed the veil that finally fell in reach over Claude's shoulder as he bent down to argue. Gleeful he'd finally caught his prey, the baby promptly shoved is in his mouth and drooled before it could get away again.

"Yes, you'd know a lot about stabbing people," Clopin retorted. "And his name is Prince."

"Prince?" Claude repeated in disapproval.

Despite his objections, Prince made a happy, yet unpronounceable sound.

"What kind of a name is that?" Claude muttered. His opinion on names would be forever scarred thanks to his parent's discussions over whether or not he should be around people based on their names. He never really understood any real pattern to it, but royalty was not only out the window, but run over in the street ever since his mother complained about his father having owned a dog by the name of Duke, even if he was eight when he named him.

"Uh, his mother named him. No real significance at all," Clopin said. "Can I--?"

"Yes, here," Claude said, shoving the baby into Clopin's arms. "Your baby stinks. Go find somewhere to change it!"

Clopin ran off and Prince immediately began screaming.

'You and me both,' Claude thought.

Somewhere, while Claude was sitting on his barrel again, the child quieted. He wondered if the idiot gypsy had actually learned something, but he realized instead that God must be having a very good laugh at him when Clopin returned. He didn't even know diapers could have bad fashion sense. One side was pinned, and the other side was wrapped over the baby's hip and came back over his shoulder and was shoved into his mouth.

"For future reference, don't let him help," Claude said. "And I think I can solve one of your problems." He took the edge of the diaper from the child's mouth, only for Prince to grab his finger and use that as a replacement.

"How in the world could you of all people ever know how to take care of children?" Clopin complained, then realized not only that he'd said it aloud, but who he said it in front of. He was used to whining his complaints about the minister to anyone who would listen, especially since that was usually only himself.

"If I told you that I really would have to kill you," Claude said. "You are far too talkative to tell…and I don't want you talking about this either."

"Trust me, I won't," Clopin said, rolling his eyes. The fact that he'd been with Giselle had been no secret and had already caused trouble. Some people apparently hadn't been too keen on his 'No killing Frollo's new kid' policy either. No one could like this. But it was his only option, aside from being a bungling deaf parent forever and losing Giselle over it eventually. Asking any of the other gypsies would indeed look like he was too incompetent to take care of them if he couldn't take care of a tiny child on his own. Giselle wasn't going to be too happy after he admitted he's been ad-libbing child rearing when he was all she and Prince had. He'd already gotten in trouble asking about one kid to the French; asking for parenting tips wasn't going to be much better and news of it might leak to Giselle.

Claude took his finger away. "I'd step back and rub that baby's back if I were you."

"Why?"

"I'd shut up and do it," Claude said, pulling his legs close and pulling his hat over his ears.

Clopin held Prince away from him and rubbed his back. He felt like Claude was playing a very stupid prank on him and couldn't see how anyone smarter than a cow could have fun making him stand funny and play with the baby.

Prince spat up what had to be half his body weight and let out a belch Clopin was sure would be rude in the dirtiest of taverns. Finished, Prince giggled and looked for something to put in his mouth.

"Hey!" Clopin exclaimed happily. "He shut up!"

"Yes, I'm a genius, aren't I?" Claude muttered. This was going to be the longest day in his entire life.

………………..

"Exactly why can't the mother take care of the child?" Claude asked. Prince was still learning that unlike his father, this man couldn't be tricked into letting him take his hat away to eat it. Instead, the baby decided to attempt to gum Claude's hand to death and marvel at the sparkles in his jewelry.

"Long story, very boring, wouldn't interest you," Clopin said, turning the contract upside down to convince Frollo of his illiteracy. In fact, he could read, and rather well, not just for a gypsy but for any peasantry. It was writing he had a difficult time with. After twenty years of practice, he could barely make any letter legible and he still had no idea how to hold a pen. He never planned to write his name so Frollo's soldiers could never trace anything back to him and after today, he never wanted to again.

"I tend to hear that a lot by people who break the law," Claude said.

"Speaking of long and boring," Clopin said, ignoring Claude's statement. "I thought you said this was a marriage contract. I'm giving her away, not willing my stuff to twenty people… not that I have much stuff." It did indeed actually say everything it should. There were no tricks Clopin could see. It was, in fact, a normal marriage contract for a father to sign his daughter away with. Clopin wanted to do his best to test the minister, though not too much because the man had his baby. Too much trouble and he'd never hold Prince again. He was already mad that the kid was quieter in Frollo's arms than he had been while asleep in his.

"It is."

"Then why is it so long?"

"Because it's a legal document," Claude said, wiping his gooey hand on Prince's long black hair. Prince didn't understand, but thought it was a fun game and squealed happily.

"Then read it to me," Clopin said.

"If I did, we'd be here two more days just for me to explain what half the words meant."

"That's all it is, then?" Clopin asked.

"Yes. It's about marriage and nothing else. Are you going to sign it or not?"

"I would, but I don't know how to spell my name."

"Well, it's not like I would know," Claude complained. "I don't even know what your name is." He also didn't care.

"My name is Clopin," Clopin said.

"I need your full name," Claude grumbled.

Prince giggled at what he considered the two men making funny faces at each other. Clopin sneered disdainfully and Claude was trying to contain a raging headache and glared at the man who'd found a way to give him almost as much trouble as the archdeacon. To Prince, this was better than eating socks.

"Clopin Trouillefou," Clopin said. It wasn't like he was really using his last name, nor was anyone else. To the French, he was 'That man with the puppets' or 'Hey, you.' Most of the gypsies didn't know his last name, let alone use it.

"Strange, I always assumed you all had Spanish names," Claude said, switching arms to hold Prince. He'd need his writing arm soon if he was going to get rid of this gypsy without having wasted the day with him and getting nothing in return. "Like Esmeralda."

"Why would I have a name like that?" Clopin argued. "That's a girl's name."

"Never mind. Here, see if you can make a scribble that looks anything like this," Claude said, writing the name down on the table. The table was already half covered in notes. Some were about executions and former prisoners, some were about remembering to do something for his cook—whom he never mentioned by name—nearly half were abut who owed him money for different reasons. One note said 'Note to self: find something to write notes on instead of table.'

Lots of illiterate people signed legal contracts. Even idiots want to get married and many more paid bail or owed someone something they wished they didn't. More often than that, idiots got themselves killed and other idiots argued who got their idiotic stuff. Claude had seen people write down random words, backwards letters, names that were unpronounceable given the disarrangement or lack of letters, and even strange symbols that couldn't possibly belong to any foreign language. He was actually amazed that Clopin managed to write something legible—barely—and actually correct in how one would write it—despite holding the pen backwards at first.

"Can I have my kid back now?" Clopin asked. He didn't like Frollo touching the baby and the fact that Prince enjoyed being held by the man made him want to find someone to perform an exorcism. He was going to work hard to get Prince to hate the guy, as a proper gypsy king should. It was unbecoming for the child to giggle while on the minister's knee. Well, Clopin was going to find some way to fix that… how he was not sure, but he was confident he'd figure something out someday—or that Frollo would solve it himself.

"How old were you when you had Esmeralda? Five?" Claude was actually just guessing at Esmeralda's age. He knew she was older than Gaetan and younger than he was, but there were a lot of numbers in that range.

"I'm not her real father," Clopin said, then realized how much trouble he'd be in if he didn't explain. "I'm just a stand-in. Have been her whole life."

"Ah, father by proxy," Claude mused.

"I don't know who that is, but whatever she said is all lies," Clopin huffed.

"Never mind," Claude said. "Here, take your baby and go away. I just wanted to know if it's legal."

"Yes, this is one thing you don't have to worry about in getting Esmeralda to move into whatever cemetery or wherever it is you live," Clopin said, taking Prince away and trying to hold the baby as far from the minister as possible. "But don't go waving it around; I don't want people to know about it."

"Good. I don't want people to know about today either." How did he keep getting himself into situations where he couldn't kill people?

"An exchange of favors, then," Clopin said.

"How about I just consider it a reason not to kill you?"

"Whatever lets you sleep at night," Clopin said, and started to leave. "If you do sleep."

"I do indeed; I am not magic!" Claude exclaimed. "Although tonight I'm going to be having nightmares."

…………

Clopin made up a story about Frollo arresting him because he hadn't arrested any gypsies recently, but he picked the wrong man to tangle with (Clopin didn't know anything to begin with) and it was indeed a terrifying ordeal, one from which Prince would never recover (thus explaining why the baby was so quiet from now on).

Some believed him, some were even more suspicious than before, some were just glad the baby was quiet now.

Clopin became suspicious now. Frollo's cells were empty of gypsies. Why, then, was he the only one happy about all this? Well, he'd get to the bottom of all this…. after making up for all the sleep Prince had cost him.

………………

Frollo didn't need to make anything up. He told Phoebus and Gaetan that he had someone tortured and didn't want to talk about it. Phoebus didn't want to know and Gaetan didn't ask.

Gaetan never asked. Usually, Claude was fine with this. In fact, it was what he depended on. If anything was important, she'd tell him. If not, she wouldn't and thus he didn't have to care. She could deal with her own problems and they didn't even have to exist for him.

Except they did—or would—and she wasn't talking. The entire city was being too quiet and he couldn't do anything about that. Well, at least there was one female he could talk to without feeling awkward about it.

He put his arm around her head—she was far too short to put it around her back—and put his hand on her shoulder. "Stop giving me that look; that's an order captain," he said and led her home…to his home. He didn't know if she thought of it as her own home and didn't care. That wasn't the topic at hand.

"My boy, you haven't said a word about Esmeralda. You do understand the how things will change, don't you?"

Gaetan had gotten used to him calling her a boy. She stopped being surprised that he took a while to remember her real gender in late March. "What will change?" she asked.

"Oh, you poor boy," Claude said, pulling her closer and tightening his grip on her shoulder. "Such a horrid upbringing for someone with your mind—Phoebus hasn't been rubbing off on you about gypsies, has he?"

"No, master," she said, shaking her head.

"I can't imagine how you'd ever forget what they tried to do to you. Those innocent people! That poor child! And to think he nearly took your life! But do not worry. Once I have Esmeralda, I will have the mystery to their hidden lair and you will have nothing to fear from people like that. Do you understand that much?"

"Yes, master. Except Esmeralda will be free."

"Oh, you have no idea about the laws of marriage, do you?" he said, almost laughing. "The wife obeys the husband. As much as the two are devoted to keeping each other happy, he is the one in control." More or less. His father let his mother do what she wanted and she let him do what he wanted. His mother did take on his father's last name and he was in charge of the money if she ever wanted to spend it. Then again, Claude's mother did badger him to impress ladies because he could tell them what to do after they were married. "Frankly, I'm allowed to do what I want with her, so long as I don't kill her. I won't let her carry on with those cruel gypsy tricks of hers, especially if she tries any of them on you."

"But—" she started. She wondered what kind of house the manor would turn into. What did he mean he was allowed to do whatever he wanted? As far as she knew, he wanted the whereabouts of the magical Court of Miracles, which she still didn't believe in. He didn't need Esmeralda after that. What was he going to do afterwards? What would he do to get it? Did it involve her? What did he mean he wouldn't let Esmeralda do anything to her? "I don't understand, master. Why would she try anything on me?"

"If I marry, she would be giving you orders as well. Do you understand now?"

"Yes, master."

He stopped walking and put a finger to her chin as he bent down to look her in the eyes. "Really, is that all you have to say? There must be something concerning you about this. It must be such a terrifying thought, living with a gypsy. I've had months to think this over and it is the only sure way I could ever find a way to protect you and all the other children in Paris."

Gaetan thought about this. Apparently, she was supposed to be scared of Esmeralda. Gaetan had never been scared of Esmeralda. She had been scared of the implications of some things Esmeralda said, but that wasn't the same. Was Esmeralda safer than other gypsies and they were what she was supposed to be afraid of? She was afraid of gypsies. She was also afraid of the French. She'd kicked many of both in the face and thrown rocks at a lot more. True, a gypsy had tried to kill her, but so had a Frenchman. Well, the gypsy had been the one to kill two other people and abduct a child to get to her just to kill the kid, leaving the body in an alley. Was Esmeralda like that? What did happen on Easter? Had she tried to kill him? If so, why was he seeing her again? Why didn't he just fight her in self-defense and ask for the Court of Miracles with her in the dungeons? Did he lose a fight? How was that possible?

Claude could see her questioning look turn into a frightened one. His hand moved from her chin to her cheek. "Don't be afraid, you can tell me." Truthfully, he wondered if she was slow like Phoebus or hand never actually thought about this before.

"Will she really be that dangerous?" Gaetan asked.

"She will not be while under my control, I will see to that. Do not worry; the woman will learn to be happy. But before I can tame her, she will still be dangerous. I want you to help me."

Gaetan wondered what he was talking about now. Sure, three people would live in a house together. First, he mentioned that he'd live happily, being in total control and having the Court of Miracles. Then he mentioned that Esmeralda would live happily. But he wasn't talking about three people, he was talking about two people. What help did he need from her? Weren't all those flowers working? "What do I do, master?" What could possibly be the answer?

"I need you to guard me. I want you to keep watch from a distance and I want you to act like a gentleman. She will feel safer from me with you around, and I certainly will be. Can you do that?"

"Of course I can, master."

"Oh, good boy. Thank you. It means so much that I have someone to depend on, someone who watches me, who obeys me. You will tell me immediately if you have problems with Esmeralda, won't you?

"Yes, master."

"Very good. Now come along, there's work to be done at the house."


	16. Be Prepared

"I know you're not that into the figurines," Quasimodo said. In fact, Gaetan had been interested in the figurines. She was awed by how easily he could carve and paint. She loved listening to him explain about the people he'd seen. Sometimes he tried to explain parts of the Bible using them to act out the story or allegory, but it only worked for so long. She wasn't interested in dolls, even when she found it amusing that the figurine of Frollo was often used as God. "I wanted to show you this, though." He took a figurine from within the model cathedral and handed it to Gaetan. It was a small figure of her, flat-chested and armed with a dagger. "It took me a while to get it right, and by that time I had to start over."

Gaetan's hair had grown out since the last time it was cut. Her bangs covered her eyebrows and tried in vain to get into her eyes. Meanwhile, the rest of her hair was free to grow over her ears and even reached her chin in the front. The doll's hair was better groomed than her own, which was determined to part in a zigzag.

"I love it," she said. "It just needs a horse to fall off of."

"I wanted to make it a girl, but I figured there wasn't any real difference."

"But I can only be a girl up here," she said, setting the doll on top of the cathedral behind the doll of Quasimodo.

"What about at home?" he asked.

"I haven't been at home since—oh, you mean at the master's house. No, I'm still a boy there. I think he prefers it that way."

"I haven't seen him since last year," Quasimodo said, now worried. "Is he still hurt?"

"He's better now," she said. She took Frollo's doll and set it in front of the cathedral from where it lay amongst the pile of townspeople in the square. "I think he wants me to take over in visiting you. Besides, he's been preoccupied with a girl."

"That sounds romantic," Quasimodo mused, shuffling through his female dolls. "I see a lot of couples from the tower at night. I think its sweet he found someone."

"Sweet is not the world I'd use," Gaetan grumbled. He may have seen cute rendezvous' or simple little trysts, but she had spent years sleeping under tables trying to drown out noises she thought humans shouldn't be capable of making and hoping none of those noises were coming from her mother. He hadn't seen Phoebus slobbering on some woman in an alley on Easter, either. "You don't have to go to the country with them and watch them." He hadn't been given a lecture on getting unholy thoughts while watching adults in the middle of courtship. From what she'd seen of Phoebus, she was a lot more worried about her stomach than her brain.

"Which country?" Quasimodo asked. "I thought he preferred this one."

"No, that's not what I'm talking about. Here," Gaetan said. She stood up from the table and took his hand, leading him out to the balcony that overlooked the city. "All these houses all smashed up together is the city." She spread her arms out, gesturing at the city unhappily. She sat on the railing and pointed across it to the rolling hills and the dark purple mountains. "But all the way over there, with the dirt roads and the cows eating grass and the windmills is the country."

"Who lives out there?" Quasimodo asked.

"Farmers, maybe some miners, probably some tanners. I don't know. I've barely seen a tree."

"It sounds amazing," Quasimodo said.

"Why?"

"Think about it," Quasimodo said. "No people. No chores. No crime. No gypsies." Quasimodo had shared his foster father's objection to gypsies and the fact that one had tried to kill her wasn't going to get them on his good side any time soon. Gaetan didn't care. Women, men, gypsies… there was something wrong with everyone apparently.

'One gypsy,' Gaetan thought to herself.

"What's that black stuff?" Quasimodo asked.

"That's a forest."

"Who's in there?"

"No one's there. I don't know anyone would go there. I don't even know why I'm going there."

……………….

Esmeralda was unsure what to think of her situation. She had been struck down by a bolt as well, though when was a mystery, possibly to even God the Omniscient himself. She was still wallowing in the pool of intrigue and recognized the symptoms, but misdiagnosed the disease. Of course he was intriguing. Why would he not be? He was a puzzlebox, each new way to poke at him offered a delicious new prize. The only problem was figuring out a few new tricks. She knew how to get his attention and keep it away from anything else around him. She knew how to get funny expressions from him. She knew how to get a horse ride from him and make him give up duty in the process. She even knew how to get secrets out of him. Too bad the gifts she got were all surprises; there was probably some strategy to that game that she hadn't mastered yet. She wondered what else she could get out of him.

He wasn't what she wanted in a relationship, though. She wasn't sure what she wanted from that, but she was sure that being armed shouldn't be a requirement. That was not the kind of protection she wanted to use.

"Are you—Oh, yes, very funny, haha—You are so going to pay for this! Are you alright, Esmeralda?" Clopin asked, careful not to mention Frollo's name, as he fought a losing war with Prince over his earring.

"I'm fine," Esmeralda said.

"You are a dead man!—I said Let go!" Esmeralda untangled the baby's fingers from his earring and Clopin pulled Prince out of reach and untangled the baby's fingers from Esmeralda. "You seem worried," Clopin said, wrestling his own fingers from Prince.

In retaliation to everything having been taken away, Prince began to scream.

"Not this again!" Clopin complained, and tossed his hat to the baby. "Here, hat, your favorite vegetable."

Prince set to work to soak the hat in drool.

"I'm not worried, I'm… wondering something," Esmeralda answered.

"Well, if it's about what to do with Frollo, setting him on fire gets my vote."

"But he hasn't done anything wrong recently!" Esmeralda said.

"Oh yes he has," Clopin said, glaring at Prince. His only consolation was that twenty years ago Quasimodo had tried to eat Frollo's hat. "I just can't tell you about it."

"You mean he—"

"No, I don't mean he actually arrested me, I made that up. I asked him to show me how to take care of Prince."

"You what?" she screamed.

"Yes, I want all of France to know about this, as well and parts of England," Clopin said, smacking his aching ears. "I had no choice and I had no sleep. Besides, how is it different from one day of you putting up with the bastard?" 'Except Prince was the one pawing at his chest,' Clopin mused.

"I'm armed, first off!" Esmeralda exclaimed.

Clopin took his hat away from Prince and the baby started howling.

Esmeralda waved her arms, conceding that point to Clopin, who gave the hat back and silenced the child.

"Esmeralda, I'm worried for your safety."

"You shouldn't be," she said, crossing her arms.

"Look, I know you're an independent woman, but—"

"No, I mean you shouldn't be," she said, almost disappointed. "As in there's no reason to in the first place."

"I don't think I understand."

"He's a moron."

"Are we talking about the same man here?" Clopin asked. "Tall, dark, scary, forgot to tell me that babies will rip shiny objects off your ears?"

"Clopin, he can't yell at me, he can't arrest me, and he can't hit me. He has to stand around and make polite conversation with me until I ask for presents. He has no idea what to do and I'm surprised he even allowed himself to get into this situation."

"He's capable of making polite conversation?" Clopin asked.

"Clopin, with me he's barely capable of any kind of conversation. In fact, he had trouble walking the first day I was with him."

"Esmeralda, many men have trouble walking the first day with you. Would you mind not putting these things in my head?"

"I'm more worried about his head," Esmeralda said.

"Yes, that is a good point," Clopin said, closing his eyes and trying to will away several ideas out of his own. He hadn't wanted to know what went on in the minister's mind before, and back then he took comfort in the fact that the man showed no interest in breeding.

"So far I've gotten him to hit it when the wrong idea gets in there," Esmeralda said. She didn't want to admit that it was more due to his bad dancing than her quick thinking.

"Well, tell me if you run out of blunt objects," Clopin said. "By the way, you still owe me that hammer from the last man you had to chase off."

………..

Claude was surprised when Esmeralda ran up to him. She told him she couldn't wait to see what he'd planned and he believed her. In truth, she didn't want to wait around for hours again for him to build up the nerve.

The shoes and the dress were almost worth the pins she had suffered. The dress covered more of her arms and shoulders than covering—or even bothering to conceal—her chest. The giant, voluminous sleeves were fun to play with and every movement of her arms sent the fabric flying in ways she could not have predicted and were fun to watch and feel. Her bust was decorated and she wondered why, because in her experience her chest was a show off enough on its own, but she was flattered nonetheless. The shoes matched the red fabric of the dress that seemed to spill everywhere and Esmeralda wondered both what the point of the shoes were if they were just going to be covered and if the women had forgotten to cut her skirt despite the many measurements they'd taken.

Walking, however, was a whole new lesson all over again. Esmeralda could easily walk in a dress; it was walking in such a big dress that posed a problem. The skirt kept trying to shuffle between her legs or bunch up around one. Her sleeves lost their fun when they got in the way of hiking yards of fabric up around her. Instead of clinging to Frollo because she liked the way his brain wandered away at her touch, she clung to him for balance and support. Considering her first reason, the second wasn't working well. Eventually her grip migrated to his arm and she managed to acquire a skill at shuffling the skirt ahead of her and around her legs, but her skill was almost as bad as Claude's skill at dancing. By that time, the two had managed to get two blocks from the shop and Gaetan met up with them.

Claude nearly swore in relief as Esmeralda took hold of Gaetan's horse and he excused himself to ready his own horse. Before, embarrassment and the fact that she'd caused him to fall over three times, always on something sharp, he had nearly lost the battle with frustration and some fear of losing her and her secrets and he almost offered to carry her.

"You have no idea what wearing a dress is like," Esmeralda told Gaetan as they slowly made their way to the barracks.

"Yes, whoever invented pants was just jealous and didn't want to share them," Gaetan replied.

"You're so funny," Esmeralda said and giggled. "Where did you get such a sense of humor?"

"I made it myself," Gaetan muttered. Would this woman go back to talking like random words falling out of a book? Was this really how all women thought guys wanted to be talked to?

"You're so cute," Esmeralda said. "How old are you, eight?"

Gaetan rolled her eyes. Well, that explained things… she hoped.

"I am fourteen." Close enough, right? She could be a very short fourteen year old boy, right?

"Oh," Esmeralda said, her mood suddenly changing. Her hand on the horse moved farther from Gaetan. Apparently, when you had more to put in your trousers, you obviously had less to put in your head. Oh yes, haha, you're a very untelligent toddler who's so smart to tie his own shoes, but oh no, you say anything after the age of twelve as a male and everything is code for 'take your blouse off.'

Gaetan sighed. She wanted to go back to talking to Phoebus about stuff she didn't actually want to. She'd been ordered to 'set things right with that man' and have some sort of talk with him about things neither of them wanted to think about the other doing. It wasn't fair. She didn't do anything wrong. At least she hadn't been given a deadline to finish talking about it.

"Is it hard to ride a horse?" Esmeralda asked.

"No, but the ground is," Gaetan answered.

They arrived at the barracks finally. Gaetan was relieved when Esmeralda made her way, this time adequately—though nowhere near gracefully—to Frollo. Geatan was starting to see why men like Phoebus had such hard heads: they wouldn't damage them when they beat them against something.

…………….

"Awww," Esmeralda cooed as she came upon Frollo petting his horse's neck. Frollo either didn't hear her, or pretended she hadn't said anything. The horse, however, did notice her. The destrier stopped stretching and adjusting to have Frollo's fingers work themselves to the perfect spot and shoved the man back gently. The horse took a step forward, putting itself in between the two humans, and sniffed his friend.

Claude was still uncomfortable about what he thought of Esmeralda. The thoughts he had of her were intangible longings now, things that confused him and even caused him pain when he tried chase them away. He was haunted by these thoughts. He found himself looking out his window when no one was around to take his mind away and he'd wonder what he was looking for and all that he could think of was her and a sickening shiver went down his spine when he tried to tell himself he should expel her from his life. He was trapped by these thoughts. He didn't want to be taken over by another person, his mind was his and it was his last refuge from the nasty people in the city, especially gypsies. But any thoughts of fleeing, of chasing her away, of threatening or hurting or even killing her made him feel sick and he felt the very real chance of tears now. He felt he should have gotten rid of her the moment me saw her, and angry at her for somehow convincing him otherwise.

He couldn't fend off his own thoughts and he couldn't argue them into leaving for they were impervious to logic, and deep down these weren't thoughts that even hinted at ungodliness, which meant God couldn't help. He was alone in battling these demons and they insisted on tearing at him from every side. She had so much power over him and he hated it. Even more, he was afraid of it. He wanted to run from his own head.

At the moment he was trying to focus on actually having a nice day with this woman and wanted to pretend she didn't turn his mind into a chaotic civil war. But pretending didn't make the feelings go away. Just because he was dealing with the outside, didn't mean he'd never return to the inside.

Unlike Claude, horses love feelings. They breathe them, in and out. Friendship was made of happiness and sadness, of nuzzles of appreciation and snorts of pride. The horse wanted only to be friends with Claude. That was enough for him and he tended to be a selfish horse. Everyone else could go find someone else to be friends with, and if they did, their friends were nowhere near as nice as his. But now someone wasn't just trying to take his friend away, but confuse and terrify the poor human. Well, the horse wasn't going to let her. She'd been mean to his friend, so he wasn't go to let her play with him anymore.

"Here," Claude said, shoving a chunk of sugar into Esmeralda's hand. "Hold your hand out flat as possible.

Esmeralda offered the treat to the horse, but the destrier sniffed her hand and shook its head. It nudged Claude, asking his friend to give it to him.

Claude took the sugar back and gave it to the horse and petted its neck. 'Yes,' he silently told the horse. 'You don't have to like her. You're a good horse. Just put up with her.'

Claude's encouragement went too far, though. The horse took another step, trying to keep the two humans apart entirely. Well, he was not about to be outsmarted by his own animals. Claude took the reigns and tied them to the fence. He mounted the horse and turned around to ride side-saddle.

Esmeralda smiled as Claude offered his hand. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Out in the country," he said. "I own land there and it's quiet."

"But no one's out there!" Esmeralda cried.

"You have nothing to worry about. My apprentice will be with us the entire time."

"Malarrimo?" Esmeralda asked, looking over at Gaetan.

"Malarrimo?" Claude echoed, barely pronouncing the word and making a face as if the word put a bad taste in his mouth.

"It means raven," Gaetan said, riding her own horse over to the two. What was taking so long?

'Dear God, don't ask me to teach you Spanish,' Esmeralda thought, trying to keep a straight face. 'You sound horrible!'

'Dear God, don't ask me to learn me Spanish,' Claude thought, trying to keep a straight face. 'Your language sounds horrible!'

"Surely you trust a boy who once saved your life," Claude said. 'Surely you remember nearly blowing your nose on my sleeve, too.'

Gaetan looked at Esmeralda and wondered what the woman wanted of her. The woman wanted something from her, some answer, but she wasn't even bothering to ask the question. What was she supposed to do, especially since Esmeralda thought her head worked like Frollo's?

Somehow, her puzzlement and silence in trying to ask what the unspoken question was had been the right answer and Esmeralda took Claude's hand to lead her to the side of the objecting horse and lift her by her shoulders onto the saddle next to him.

Claude leaned over and untied the reigns. He let the horse shake its head in dislike of being tricked and led it out at a steady trot trough the Paris streets.

Esmeralda leaned on him and she felt him try to scoot further over on the saddle. What a fun toy, she thought. She'd never been able to scare men, and this one practically came with a string tied to her finger as well. She wanted her ride before she risked breaking her shiny new bauble, though.

"He must look at you as a new daddy," she said.

"Who?" he asked.

"Malarrimo."

"I hope not," he answered. "I'll ask him and tell him to stop it if he does."

"Weren't you ever like him when you were his age?" she asked.

"I was nothing like him when I was his age," Claude protested. "For one thing I was taller. For another, my hair looked better than that." 'And it still does,' he thought to himself. "Boys these days wear it too long."

"I thought it would be rather understandable," she said. "His daddy just died far, far away."

'Yes, but he also died long, long ago, but that was no reason for me to say I am his father.' "My father died when I was his age. I didn't try to have my commander take me in."

"What did happen?" she asked.

"I trained as a soldier, just as he wanted. I took care of my mother before she died two years later. I finished my studies at the university and I continued to serve in the King's Guard."

"You were orphaned at sixteen?"

"Yes, and I was a free man. I am not like him."

"What about his mother?" she asked,

"What about her?" he asked. What was she trying to imply now? "I don't even know the woman."

"Doesn't he see her?"

"No, he lives in my house and is my servant," he said. "You know, he could be your servant as well, if you want."

"What are you implying?"

"I am implying whatever you want me to imply." There. He could play games with her head instead. He really didn't know how to handle such offers anyway. Save for profuse apologies over not knowing what to do, he barely managed more than five sentences with girls. The most progress he ever made was when he was drilled with questions by one girl to which his only answers were 'I don't know' and in the ending she said, 'You're very boring, you know that, don't you?' to which he answered 'Yes, I know.' After that, she talked for hours on end, carrying on the conversation without letting him in.

"But what if I'm not ready?" No, her toy wasn't supposed to do this! Give it back! This wasn't supposed to happen!

"Then take your time," he answered. What? Was he supposed to have all the answers? "A man cannot wait forever, though."

'Oh, yes he can,' she thought. "Can I have my own horse?"

"Yes, you can once we're married," he said. He could handle horses. They stayed outside and he knew how to treat those. "Perhaps after my apprentice masters a few more tricks, he can teach you to ride."

'Darn!' Well, she could fix that someday…or maybe she wouldn't have to. "What about Djali?"

"No, your goat cannot have a horse," he muttered. Just when she was pleasant to talk to.

"He's my dowry," she said. All her gypsy friends knew, so she had been used to everyone knowing about the goat. "You're not going to make me get rid of him, are you?"

"No, but my cook might," he said. "We can settle all that when you agree to it. In the mean time, there is no need to worry." Yes, he did say no more kids, but that wasn't the kind of kids he protested against.

"You should hold on tight," he said. Now that the city proper was thinning out, and even more so were the crowds, he sent the horse into a full gallop, to fly over the world and let it all blow away from under him.


	17. Blue Shadows on the Trail

Once, a long time ago, Claude's father had told him that so long as the boy kept up as a soldier and kept the family in good money, he'd be happy. Claude had been eight at the time and wasn't skilled enough to train as a soldier for the King's Guard yet. Claude's father just asked the boy to grow more every time he tried and failed at his training. His mother said money was good, but picking up nasty, ill-bred habits of low-class men and ignoring studies and ladies would mean none of it would ever matter.

Claude forgot about what his father had told him until just after his father died. He went to a university. He had learned Latin and reading and writing and scripture and laws. None of it had anything to do with handling a business based trading and selling fancy cloth. He couldn't even remember what half the colors were called.

He had asked his mother, but she said she was a lady and ladies knew nothing about any kind of business. He soon sold the business and used the money to purchase land out in the country and several houses in the city. He hoped they were what his mother would consider pretty, but she never cared.

Still, tenants paid rent and the farmers allowed him to go riding late at night out in the forest in exchange for being able to cut firewood and hunt animals in the winter.

It hit him now, like the snowy air that still tried to hide from the oncoming summer, that yes all that had been a long time ago, farther off in the past than one of those silly little stories that puppeteer told. The trees had changed; he couldn't recognize any of them now.

Well, that was the only thing that had changed. He ruled here.

…………….

The horse charged across the cobblestones and in seconds was pounding its way, unstoppable and insatiable in its quest to savor the unbound freedom, across dirt roads and wild grass. The horse could forget about the strange woman and his friend's worries. He could forget about having to wait for the other humans to move or to watch out for their fragile wooden structures or the painful metal ones. There was nothing but him and the wind.

Indeed, nothing but him and the wind for Claude as well, and two racing heartbeats. He realized something he had forgotten in planning this excursion. He had thought Esmeralda would lean forward and take hold to the reigns, her hands innocently on his. Instead, she threw her arms around his chest and they kept slipping down to his hips. He tried to alleviate the problem by putting his hand around her shoulders, but suddenly froze when he realized his hand had touched bare skin above her bodice. She said nothing and scooted under his pauldron and leaned her head against his chest, wrapping her arms over his heart and holding onto his other other pauldron. She put his free arm about her waist and he thought that if he just pretended it wasn't there he'd have no problem.

For once, it worked. The soothing breeze flying past and their fluttering clothes billowing together like struggling butterflies in a gale calmed him like breathing in some strange new and filled his blood and silenced every nerve in his body. But it all made him more aware of his heart, pounding against his chest like the hooves of his horse against the cold earth. It fluttered against its cage bars, struggling to flee from another heart that it was echoing. He could feel hers right next to him. Nothing but her heart, and still it frightened him. There was nowhere to run from her, and never would be. There was no release from this torture, for surely she'd follow him to hell as well as drag him down there with fiery chains of sorrow and longing. He'd burn for her and now knew he'd fall into that pit willingly for her. He was cursed to his desire, this heat that swept through him and he craved the fire every time it left.

He wondered why, despite the prison she'd put him in, he enjoyed the closeness. Why was it so lulling listening to just her heart, drowning out the flapping of sleeves and skirts? Why did he swear he could feel her hands upon him and wish they'd never move? Why was such a ride, one he used to love losing himself in, feeling himself flying over the world like a duteous angel, only adding to the exhilaration of sitting next to her, feeling her soft hair flying over his bare neck?

Why did she have to be a gypsy? Why did he so desperately feel he had to keep her about, to fear losing her as a companion when he'd never wanted one in the first place? Why could she control him like this? Why, after all this time, all this planning, all these years, was he no longer in charge? He needed to be in charge. He needed him to be in charge. People needed him to be in charge. He would be in charge someday, though, wouldn't he? He was in charge of everything else and nothing could go wrong. It was onnly a matter of time… he would be safe. Safe from her, safe from hell, and everyone else would be safe from everything.

……………………….

The horse found its way into the forest and leapt about over creeks and brooks, stomping on twigs maliciously, chasing down small animals from bushes, the forest was enough fun to allow the strange woman around. His friend did like her anyway, and he wasn't forgetting about him. As long as she remembered who as in charge and as long as those rabbits and birds fluttered away in terror, he could put up with her.

At last the horse's energy was spent. He wanted to relax amongst the trees and let the critters scamper back before he had one more romp and went home to muse about the day's frolics. He settled down to drink from a small stream and do his best to keep an eye on the two humans.

Claude took his hand away and worried at why he was disappointed when she took her own hands away. He was torn from listening to the sound of Gaetan catching up with them while keeping her distance by Esmeralda tapping on his pauldrons.

He turned around and she pushed his hat into his hands, as if she was worried they had nothing to do.

"Oh, yes, thank you," he said, gently taking his hat back, careful to avoid her fingers as they rested like spiders, trying to blend in with the black and purple fabric, ready to spring if they noticed the slightest sudden movement.

He had barely put his hat back on his head when she attacked. He was taken totally by surprise. He never saw it coming. Just as his hands slid away, he was suddenly blind, seeing nothing but black hair and he as struck dumb, his mouth covered by hers. Every part of him was frozen, save for his flailing hands, wondering what to do while the rest of him wondered what was happening as her tongue poked it's way past his teeth into his mouth.

Esmeralda had found a new sport with her toy. Who knew hunting could be so enjoyable? She was the predator, stalking him, walking in his shadow, prickling with excitement as his fear picked up just when it was too late. She had him cornered and he was too weak to fight back, but his struggles and submissive surrender, his silent begging for mercy set her blood aflame. She took his hands and threw them behind her and he held on as if he were drowning. He whimpered, a scared and frightened vermin under her bestial heel. She put her hands to his cheeks and pressed hard against his face. He wasn't going to get away. His wings were crushed, his legs broken, and all that was left was the mystery of what he'd do next with no way out.

She got her answer as he stopped resisting and pushed back, tentatively reciprocating her ravenous kiss. His hands crawled up to her shoulders and cupped the soft skin over the perfectly rounded bones. He still persevered to keep a space between their chests, refusing to let either of them press against the other as their hearts pounded against each other, trying to smash their way out, but he lost even that battle and gave in, clinging tighter. The fear, the willingness to give in, the way he followed her like the rainbow of colors after the sun as it sank down below, dragging the world into darkness, was what made her keep going, what made her never wish to stop her game with her new toy. She was never giving this up. No one was taking this away from her. No one else could ever play with him.

At last he finally had what he wanted, a moment where all the pain of his prison was washed away, drowned out by a flood he could not anticipate, but kept looking for. He had no idea what he wanted to do to her. He knew he wanted to tackle her, land on her and have her, but he also knew he wanted her to enjoy it. His thoughts not only wouldn't tell him what he was actually thinking, but didn't even make the remotest logical sense. But logic had been killed in the rain, a sacrifice to God who had only saved his desire and happiness, floating away under the guidance of His Great Hand, wondering what the beautiful rainbow would be like, a promise he'd never know his undeterminable fear again.

But God is not a god of peace. God would not let Claude rest just yet. His Israeal was to be torn apart, his temple destroyed, and his thoughts cast out to wander. His great tower of happiness in unity was smashed down and destroyed as a scream tore through its way to their ears so violently, it had to have left jagged scars in the forest air.

Claude pushed her away like a nightmare. His grip on her changed and he clung to her arm, his fingers stabbing her through the cloth. He ignored her screams and quietly rode his horse into the direction of the scream.

Even from where he was he could already see the signs of battle. He rode closer and the tiny battlefield unfolded like a vulture's wing in front of him. Some sort of story was written in blood on the forest floor, notes scribbled in the margins on bushes. Gaetan's horse had been slashed across the neck before it could make a noise. Two dead gypsy men lay on the ground, slashed in the gut and the neck, adding to the blood, which was spread out like a tattered blanket: smeared all over the ground, splatters decorating nearby shrubs, a bloody hand print swiped across a tree, the red painting a trail downward to another gypsy pinned by the throat with Gaetan's dagger. Bits of clothing lay everywhere in tatters. It was obvious there had been many attackers and they, perhaps Gaetan as well, had added to the blood, but that was a mystery, as was everything else.

Except for who had been there to lead them here and give them the signal.

Esmeralda was crying. She should be, he wasn't going to let her go even if she tried to tear her arm off to do so. His grip tightened, no doubt drawing blood under her sleeve and he took out his dagger. "There is no such thing as an innocent gypsy!" he yelled, holding the blade ready to drive it down onto her svelte neck.

Before he could condemn her further, she threw herself against him, seeking support as she wept.

His arm faltered. He'd seen gypsies cry before. They had begged for mercy, kissed his feet, cried in pain. But no gypsy had even cried on him, pressed against his shoulder for comfort, sharing grief and fear with him as he held his down in his gut to turn it into anger and violence later. He had no idea what to do. This wasn't supposed to happen. This couldn't possibly happen. Something was wrong; something was broken with the world. But he could feel the hot water soaking through his clothes. He could feel and see her shaking there. He could hear every sob. He couldn't dare trust her, he couldn't dare believe her. What strange thoughts he felt meant nothing in this situation and still he was torn.

He looked back out at the empty scene of the massacre, looking and listening for something that could lead him away, a scent he could follow, a bent twig pointing the way, anything.

Esmeralda suddenly perked up, terrified out of her crying by something worse than his threats. "It's a trap!" she whispered.

Furious that she had noticed something he missed, he threw the horse into a mad gallop. She grabbed onto him as they fled, her eyes wide in shock as she looked back to see a swarm of arrows fly out from the trees at them. She shrieked as one landed in her dress, lodging deep into the horse's flank. Claude pushed the horse to go faster and the destrier smashed over the crops and destroyed tools left out as it charged back to Paris. There were other casualties: several chickens and their coop, most of a fence, and several carts and stands as the city flew into view and not soon enough.

Claude leapt off the horse with Esmeralda and left it to destroy the rest of Paris for all he cared.

"You're hurting me!" Esmeralda screamed time and again as he ran down three streets and two alleys to his house and dragged her up the stairs.

"No, I'm not!" he finally yelled back and threw her into his bedroom and locked her in the room from the outside. "And don't you dare break anything!"

……………

The fact that Claude's horse had attacked his puppet stand in a blind rage was going to be the least of Clopin's problems.

Half the gypsies in the underground lair had gone mad, terrifying and threatening the other half with weapons screams of 'Dios lo quiere!' Despite having had to step in and stop five fights, three of which ended in him killing the ringleader of the quarrel and then having to deal with a sister or wife screaming at him, Clopin was more worried about the noise giving away where they were to the soldiers on the streets. Thankfully, the rowdy faction gathered some sense and even people from their own sides, men and women, came to beat their own drunken fanatics back.

They may have given up on fights and even stealing from those who they claimed were 'loyalist enemies' but they had turned their attention on him and chased him up on his gibbet, creating a human barricade to keep him from leaving.

"Dios lo quiere!" they chanted, then burst into laughter.

"Dios lo quiere silencio!" Clopin screamed back at them. "What is so funny?"

They only laughed louder. Their screams were broke up now, starting from far off from one of the entrances to the Court of Miracles. "Victoria!" they shouted, and Clopin wished he could see what they were screaming about—if there was a reason—but the crowd pressed closer and he prepared for another fight. "Tenemos el Diablo!" the crowd shouted and they parted, shoving someone through their frenzy onto the floor of the gibbet.

Clopin froze. A fight would have been better. He could have handled a fight. There were only, what, a couple thousand of them and one of him. Easy. At least, easier than this. Lying stage floor, unable to stand up due to the rope bonds around his arms and legs, was Frollo's apprentice, a psychotic whacko-in-training shivering in fear.

Someone picked the boy up and threw him into Clopin's arms. "We did what the great king of all gypsies couldn't do!" he boasted.

"That's because dead people aren't stupid enough to do what you did!" he yelled. The crowd went silent. Part of the human barricade backed away. They hadn't expected him to try and correct them. They had expected some sort of humiliation followed by an act of surrender. Most revolutions were never very well planned, and so are just jotted off in the history books as a bunch of crazy people. This was going to be one of them. "Frollo's the crazy one, not us! Now what's he going to do? Any of you think of that? No one? Two thousand people can't come up with a bright idea to keep from getting killed?"

"He got away!" someone in the back screamed.

"Oh, that's even better! You pissed him off and took his apprentice! What exactly am I supposed to do with the boy? And don't any of you suggest killing him!"

They did anyway. What could he do, call the police? Frollo was the police.

Clopin looked down at the boy. His arms were tied behind his back and Clopin's hands nearly touched, holding onto the kid's sides. No screaming, no crying, just watching everything and looking like a baby bird that had fallen into a next of cats.

The entire court began to scream. Four thousand people and not a smart thought between them. Prince was brighter than them and he had swallowed two of Clopin's earrings. Two thousand people and they choose the stupidest thing to do against the cruelest man in history. Two thousand other people and they choose now to gain a backbone and it wasn't even much of one.

If only Esmeralda were here, she'd think of—oh dear.

"Any of you consider the fact that Esmeralda's out there?" he yelled. Those who weren't still trying to cling to their anger looked confused. How stupid were his people? "Esmeralda's out there risking her life just to keep that damned man away from all of us, just to keep us safe! Any of you idiots think about what that poor girl must be going—" Clopin's head ran head long into the sudden knowledge of what his hands were on. "Oh my God, I am so sorry!" he screamed, shoving the not-so-boy away at arms length. His brain stopped trying to pick up the pieces of the disaster and checked up on what his mouth had just done. "Wait!" he shouted to the crowd. "This might still work!"

The half of the crowd that hated him didn't like him stealing their idea. The crowd that looked to him to make the situation go away wondered why he had changed sides.

"He's a girl!" Clopin yelled. "She's not a boy!" he tried to correct himself. Well, they got the idea. If they were half as smart as he used to think they were. "We've got some secret on Frollo, finally! We trade him his girl for ours and keep him away by threatening to tell all of Paris about her!"

Both crowds cheered and he bowed. Yes, he solved their stupid, petty, moronic, cowardly problem. Everyone could get back to their lives, only with a bit less running for them soon. He couldn't just hold onto her forever, though. "Throw her in the jail!" he proclaimed happily. Who would have thought that all his people's problems could be solved by a tiny, scrawny little blonde with bad hair--?

…wait…

"What's her name?" he turned and asked someone. "And get off my stage! Get! Go!" he screamed, chasing the people off the gibbet with his dagger. "Someone tell me the boy's name, and don't give me that 'Malarrimo' garbage!"

"Chiot!" someone yelled proudly. Hooray, he'd found a bilingual idiot.

"We'll figure that out later," he said, and carried her down from the gibbet.

No wonder he couldn't find her. No one would ever think to look for a 'Sweet, adorable little girl' in a rock-throwing, reticent little boy guarded by a man who might as well be Devil himself were it not for the fact that devil could make himself look attractive now and then. He was sure the girl couldn't have acquired all her traits, even if she had been spending months with the nasty minister, from him. He was going to have to tell Giselle to be a bit more accurate about describing her kids after this.

Well, that was two messes solved at least. No more Frollo to worry about, Esmeralda can forget about him like all the other creeps she ever dated, and wouldn't Giselle be happy to see her daughter again? Things were finally looking up. Problems were almost solving themselves. So much, in fact, that they ended up amounting to three instead of two, considering that now the gypsies would be left alone. These idiots were contagious.

Well, the important thing was that he'd proven he was still in charge. Nothing could go wrong now.

………….

Esmeralda's first thought was to escape out the window, but when she looked out, there was an old woman screaming at her beneath it. Apparently, Frollo had alerted his cook to the situation and not to her.

She turned to the room wondered what to do. She contemplated actually defying him and breaking something, but decided against that. For once he didn't deserve to be punished. If anyone deserved it, she did. She had gotten the poor little boy killed. Of course he'd be angry. Her people had always banded together. One person's problem with him became everyone's problem. His problem with one of them became his problem with everyone of them. She was lucky to be alive and unharmed.

She had nothing to do now, nothing to drive her boredom away, no Djali, no tambourine, and no toys, human or not. Eventually she began going through his things, wondering what he did to stave off boredom, naughty or not.

She began going through everything of his she could, shoving it all back haphazardly afterwards. Whatever he did in his spare time, he didn't do it in his bedroom as far aw she could see. The shelves were full of books, but only one of them had any pictures in it. They were all full of scribbles and little symbols, some of them not even French letters. How could anyone have so many books that were obviously so boring and meaningless?

He seemed to be writing his own book and left pieces about in and on top of drawers. She couldn't make out his dainty, frilly writing either and what pictures he did draw were very bad, nothing but a bunch of circles and lines and arrows. He should take classes.

The rest of his room was a bit more amusing, though nothing to hold her interest for long. His clothes were folded neatly, even his socks for some reason. Who in the world folded their socks? Or made someone else fold their socks for them?

Nothing fun in his clothes unless she wanted to try on his dresses. Maybe later. Besides, they might not fit over her chest. That and she didn't know when he was coming back. Dressing in his clothes would be a bit hard to explain, especially when she wasn't sure how much danger she was already in.

As much as everyone had joked about his underwear, going through it now was just throwing piles of cloth about. There was no real fun in it and she wondered why as she tossed it back into the drawers.

She abandoned his clothes and turned to the bed. She hadn't really realized it was there. It was gigantic, but she had thought it was part of the wall at first, the dark wood and black velvet just one huge, looming shadow. The posts of the canopy were almost twenty feet high, and she wondered why one skinny man would need a bed so big. She shoved the velvet curtain away and crawled onto the mattress. It was also velvet, and stuffed with flowers and feathers. For someone who was so meticulous about where he left things and how every single article of clothing was neatly folded into the drawers, his bed was a mess. Blankets were left everywhere, pillows were strewn about. It looked like someone had tried to make a fort and gave up after getting tangled in the many blankets. That sounded like a good idea. She should remember that. Meanwhile, the feathers were fluffier than the straw she was used to and sinking into the bed, covered in pillows, and attacked by pillows as she bounced up and down on it was amusing for a few minutes.

She crawled out of the bed, leaving it more of a mess than before just in time. Or maybe it didn't matter.

She froze as she heard the door unlock. He was coming back. He was going to be so angry about the attack. He was going to punish her, she knew it. He'd blame her along with every single other gypsy, whoever it was who was responsible for this. He'd kill her. Or maybe there was a reason she'd been locked in his bedroom.

Shaking, she waited for him to enter the room. She was forced to keep waiting, to keep wondering what her punishment and fate would be. A hand and a bit of his sleeve poked in and tossed her old clothes and a bit of bread through the barely open door, then disappeared before it slammed shut and locked again.

The thought of him bringing her stuff made her feel worse. She hadn't just lost her freedom, possibly her life. A long time ago, those would be all she cared about losing. But now she'd found something so much more fulfilling than just surviving and not being walled in. He wasn't just a toy, he was her toy, her best toy, the greatest toy she could ever find. He was a thrilling toy, a toy she never wanted to lose, one that no replacement could truly match. Now she'd never get to play with him again. No more flowers, no more dresses she couldn't walk in, no more rides… no more feeling that racing, scared heartbeat under her hand and seeing him beg her to promise she'd never hurt him and that his fear was just a dream, a nightmare only she could chase away.

She stared at her old clothes and then looked down at her new dress. A giant slit stretched all the way down from the top of her thigh all the way down her train until it had sliced her skirt into two uneven halves. The arrow had never been taken off the horse in the panic. The horse was gone. Her dress was ruined. Any chance to get anything else ever again had been killed. Everything she ever had in her life had been taken away from her. She didn't even have Djali to keep her company. Someone took everything away from her in one moment of betrayal and it stung her more than ever because it was one of her own.

If she wasn't going to have this life, she better stop pretending, she decided. She took off her red dress and changed into her old clothes. Looking for a place to put the gift she'd never appreciated and would never be able to appreciate later, she noticed something she hadn't before. Tucked away in a corner were a few more black blankets, neatly folded. Walking over to them, she noticed they'd been turned into a makeshift pallet. Next to it was a tiny set of things that matched Frollo's: folded clothes, including underwear, a few bits of paper, practice scribbles from someone trying to write, a small bag of money…

Esmeralda didn't feel like touching any of it. Everything she'd lost, little Malarrimo had lost too. No freedom, no safety, no chance to survive. But he was a boy. Surely whatever was going to happen to him couldn't be anywhere near as threatening as what was in store for her. She was a woman. There were so many more things just one man could do to her.

She sat on the floor, not wanting to touch the bread, sick to her stomach at the thoughts of what either side in this fight was capable of.

……………….

"You!" Claude yelled at the first soldier he found. No wonder no one was being arrested. None of his men were about on the streets, and those who were, were exchanging stupid jokes with civilians. The soldier panicked and whoever he was talking to ran inside and slammed the door closed. 'They'd better be afraid,' Claude thought. He didn't know what he was going to do if anyone acted up within reach, but he was going to make them regret even thinking of goofing off on duty after this. "My horse has been attacked. I don't know where he is and I don't care. Find him and get someone to tend to him. Tell your captain I want to see him two seconds ago!" he yelled.

Claude watched the man run off, so scared he tripped and nearly fell on his polearm more than once as he ran down the street. If this was what his soldiers were like, what was the captain like? Probably glued to someone's wife at the moment. Gypsies everywhere, soldiers that could easily be replaced by incontinent pigeons, his captain was never anywhere he should be, he wasn't just disrespected but people tried to murder him on his own property and then abducting and murdering children, what kind of city had Paris become? What kind of wretched, immoral, uncouth people had everyone become? When did they all turn English?

'Finally!' Claude thought in exasperation as he heard hoofbeats.

"Sir, I—" Phoebus started, but was cut off as Claude grabbed by the shoulders and pulled him towards him, almost off the horse.

"I don't care!" Claude muttered through gritted teeth. "I am not going to dumb this down or repeat myself. I want my exact orders carried out the very second I am finished and I do not care what else happens. I do not care what you think, I do not care if the plague returns, I do not care if someone or something is on fire. Do you understand?"

"Yes…" Phoebus answered. He was pretty sure something worse than all that was happening already and he'd missed it on the other side of the city, trying to help people who'd been injured by a spooked horse the size of a house. What could be worse than an animal smashing up half the city?

"Gaetan has been kidnapped and I was attacked by gypsies. I want every single solider patrolling this city, but they are not to arrest anyone without proof. You are to go into the forest in the northeast and see what you can find."

"Sir?" Phoebus ventured.

"This had better be good!" Phoebus wondered if the man was hurting himself gritting his teeth that fiercely.

"You have no idea what to do, do you?"

"I at least have the sense not to go saying that loud enough for any spies to hear me," Claude whispered.

"Yes sir, I hadn't thought of that sir!" Phoebus yelled.

"Any other thoughts in that head of yours can wait until you come back," Claude said. He dropped Phoebus, who landed on the street, his feet tangled in the stirrups, and left.

"This is why people take up drinking," Phoebus mumbled into the cobblestones. If only it actually worked instead of making his head hurt worse. After he came back and reported to Frollo, he was going to ask what would make him black out for a week and wake up not remembering the last half year of his life.


	18. The world's Greatest Criminal Mind

Gaetan wondered why she hadn't been killed. Obviously, they had wanted to. Something was holding them back and she hated it.

Frollo had been right all along. The Court of Miracles did exist. It really was the worst of all demons to be told of. More people than she ever thought existed were gathered here, wherever it was. They had dragged her here with a sack over her head and held her up in front of a crowd tied up and with her clothes shredded. Still bound by ropes, she'd been thrown in a cell far tinier than her mother's room. There was nothing between her and them but thick, solid bars. There was nothing to shield her from the images of them and their bonfires, their heathen cheers and celebration. Nothing to stop them from turning to her and throwing something at her or kicking her. Nothing to keep away the jeers and yells or the beer dumped on her by someone who refused to guard her.

No one would ever come to save her. She was on her own. She'd always be on her own. Every hand she thought reached out to her was something else, someone to step on or someone turning away. She was a thing to everyone. She was something that didn't make enough money, something that magically kept the floors clean and put the laundry away and made sure Phoebus was yelled at or that he didn't look like an idiot talking to his horse.

The only person to whom she wasn't just a thing was Quasimodo. But he lived up in the bell tower of the cathedral. Even if he came, even if anyone came, what could they do? What would they think? She really was just a kid to be pulled out of messes. She was too much trouble. She was stupid, useless, a burden, too much to ever bother with again.

She was here to rot, or she'd be thrown back out on the streets die, probably to run away to another part of Paris altogether to avoid everyone who hated her first.

It really was a lost part of Hell here. They weren't even kind enough to kill her. It was all because of that devil-king of theirs.

…………

Claude had been hoping to avoid confrontation with Esmeralda after all of this. He wanted to avoid a lot of things. But that wasn't his job. His job was to deal with everything immediately, to fix everyone's problems so they could go back to their lives and cause more problems.

Anything he felt didn't matter. It never mattered. His mother had tried to teach him that the last days she was alive. She'd been her own self, acting as if his father had never existed, as if her life just went on and the only thing that had changed was the name of the day. Then, after two years of living, of sending her son to be a learned man and depending on him as the head of the family, she gave up. She fell into depression. She never ate, she barely slept, and after two days she was dead. Her problems didn't matter. She had an inept son and she had to make sure he grew into a man, or the closest thing to it. She didn't care where the money came from. She might not have even batted an eye if he bought the whorehouse. So long as he watched the family, so long as he studied, so long as he trained, so long as he was a good Christian, it was the best she'd ever manage with him. Only then could she have her own personal problems.

Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. He made sure to lock the door and slip the string the key was on back over his neck and tuck it into his gown before even looking at her.

She was sitting on the floor in her old outfit, staring at his illustrated bible. It had been a present his father gave to his mother on their wedding night. Claude hadn't opened it since her death.

"Would you like to say goodbye to Snowball?" he asked. This woman had put her sly little fingers in too many of his personal things. She was defiling his mother's book, she had killed his innocent horse, she took his apprentice, and she had stabbed him in the chest and constricted that beautiful hand around his heart and pierced it, leaving him to a lingering death of pain and remorse. But none of that mattered now. It couldn't. Not now and probably not ever.

"Who?" she asked from her position on the floor. She didn't look at him. She was looking at the space between them, wondering why it was there.

"My horse. His leg was too far injured when anyone could catch up with him."

She shook her head.

He stood where he was. Just because he couldn't care about his own problems didn't mean he had to go and try picking up new ones or make his own worse.

She stood up and walked over to him. Great, he was being chased around his own bedroom. "I'm sorry," she said, placing her hand gently on his arm.

"I know," he said in mild anger. "That would be my problem."

She took her hand away. "I don't understand."

"I didn't think you would." Well, at least there was no more need for propriety around her and he could speak his mind… whatever it was. "But you've forced me to do something I never thought I'd ever be able to do and I still doubt it: I need to trust a gypsy." He grabbed her wrists to keep her from running away. He wanted her afraid of him. He had lost too much already, he was not going to lose the fear of the one gypsy he still had some control over. "You are going to stay here and you are not going to cause further problems. So long as I have you, I have something to bargain with to get my apprentice back alive. I am issuing an edict tonight if he is not returned: what they do to him I do to you. You are perfectly safe here and I am willing to accommodate, but if you leave here, I will consider this truce over and I will consider you guilty and I will issue a death sentence for any gypsy found in this city. Do I have your word?"

Esmeralda nodded, swallowing uncomfortably. "I promise."

He released her wrists. He wanted nothing more to do with her. She was a hostage and that was all she should be until this was over. "If you need anything, knock on the door. I can show you the washroom and the facilities are outside. I am not going to follow you, but you had better return. If there is nothing you need, I will be going."

"What about Djali?" she asked.

"He is currently eating my neighbor's garbage." He really wanted to leave. It was over. 'It' should never have existed in the first place. 'It' had to be killed and he wanted the peace and quiet to try and trample it to death. "He can't be in here; he'd eat the entire room."

"Then will you stay with me?" she asked.

Why was it every time he tried to walk away she pulled at him? Why, even now, was she trying to strangle him with her wicked skein? "Damn you, woman!" he screamed, raising a hand to strike her and grabbing her wrist again as she tried to flee. "Why can't you leave me alone?" Instead of hitting her, he dropped his hand and released her wrist. "If only you'd asked I would have given you all of Paris and hung myself like Judas! If only you asked! If only you wanted! But why can't you have pity? Why can't you release me of this spell? Why can't I have peace? Why—"

Esmeralda silenced him the best way she knew how. She may be trapped, but he was even more so. Her toy was crying out to be played with, wanting her to marvel at it, demanding for her to answer to her pangs of boredom and sorrow. One word and she'd have anything she wanted from him, well she wanted him and he'd give it to her. She grabbed him and slammed him against the nearest wall and kissed him, devouring his mouth in a rabid, unquenchable ambush. Her toy was not leaving her even if she had to put him on a leash. She violently grabbed his arms and pinned them to the wall at his sides. He gave in, like a swimmer letting themself drown, giving up on trying to overpower the waves. This self-destruction was too tempting, too blinding, too perfect to fight. His hands squirmed as hers began to smother them, and he didn't notice as those fleshy manacles flexed and twitched, slowly pulling up the skirt of his gown.

Or perhaps it was she who didn't notice. She pulled away, just for a second, as she pressed against him. She breathed huskily on his neck and turned back to his face and stopped. She dropped the folds of fabric she'd gathered up in her fingers and pulled back.

He had turned his head away, forcing his eyes closed as if in pain, his teeth gritted, prepared for torture. He lunged at the opportunity to drive her away, to at least have the chance to retrieve his own breath back as his own. He kicked her off and she hit the back of his canopy bed.

"Stop tormenting me!" he screamed. She was after his soul. What more perfect time to take it from him than now? Who would believe him that it was her fault? What could he do to defend himself while in the same room? What choice did he have but to still answer to her wants, only to be wrapped up in her spiderweb and to be sucked dry?

He was already spent. Too much had happened today. He had no more energy to fight, nothing but the light flash of a fire of rage or fear to fight anything off, but not her, not one of her people who wanted him dead. He slumped forward, catching himself on a nearby bookcase. "Do you have any idea what madness it is to want you and have no choice but to run when there is no way out? Do you know how it feels to be powerless under a stranger, an enemy, and know that no matter what you do, every prayer you say to be set free of such pain goes unheard? Do you understand that I hate what you do to me, and yet I want you even more each time we meet?" His hand slipped down the bookcase, slick with sweat and most of the nerves were numb under the stress. He couldn't catch himself and he slowly fell to his knees. He couldn't even talk anymore. He was too tired. He was too vulnerable. He should have left before any of this happened.

He shivered and his hand fell away from his only support, for he was didn't even have the energy for that. He tumbled forward and wept, shuddering at how weak and disgusting he must look to her. He barely noticed as his head softly fell into her lap. He didn't move, save for his shaking sobs, as she put her hands on his head.

He only gave a silent thanks to her and The Lord that she said nothing as the world disappeared and he was lost, finally drowning in his tortured thoughts.

………………

Frollo rolled over. He hadn't slept well. His head was pounding. If God had gone to the trouble of inventing sleep, why didn't it always work? How in the world did one fail at sleep?

Dawn was poking through his window and the hot rays were playing on his face. The sun could get in line behind everyone else who wanted to push him around. Why was the sun up and he wasn't?

"Gaetan, get up," he mumbled. Something was clinging to his arm and he didn't allow nonhuman pets inside. Whoever was next to him wasn't getting up, but instead was poking his face, running a finger along whatever they thought were lines to trace and then started playing with his hair. That wasn't Gaetan. Waking up and having no apprentice wasn't a good thing. It was worse that he was waking up next to someone else. He had better wake up before things got worse. At least awake he could yell at them.

"Oh, it's you," he said, pushing Esmeralda's hand away. Why was she petting him? Children were pets, not him.

He sat up and shoved himself away from her. He didn't want to be near her. He didn't want to have to be here but last night had not gone anywhere near the way he needed it to go. What had happened and why? The whole world was going crazy and now he was going crazy with it. He knew someday Paris would all go to hell, but he hadn't planned to let it take him with it.

"Here," Esmeralda said, handing him his key on its string. "I had to use the…um…"

"Facilities, yes," he finished for her. He snatched the key away from her and stood up. He was going to keep some control in this situation, even if it was all pretend. Well, she wasn't running away, that was good. Right? Now he didn't have to kill her. Or would that be easier? Why didn't he know? He was supposed to know. It was his job to know.

Phoebus had been right. He had no idea what to do. Not about Gaetan, not about Esmeralda, not about courting, not about the captain. Everything was falling apart.

Phoebus wasn't really the find-clues type, he was the go-there-put-weapon-in-that-guy-do-what-I-say type. It turned out not to matter. Going over the forest, he had found more shreds of Gaetan's clothes, her sword and retrieved her dagger from the corpse, and another two dead gypsies, a man who had managed to wander about before dying of a punctured lung and internal bleeding and another who had been kicked away by the horse and Claude must have had his back to before he had to flee. The footprints had disappeared, dogs couldn't keep the trail, and the gypsies had disappeared entirely from Paris yet again.

Claude walked over to the window and stared out at Paris. From his vantage point, the only thing that had changed was his cook was using Esmeralda's goat as a replacement for a trash heap, throwing everything from old food scraps to worn-out brushes, but angrily learning not to use it as a dishwasher. He'd looked out his window many times, looking for some clue for the sunlight to hit and show him answers. Sometimes there were alleys he'd forgotten, sometimes he'd come up with a new threat, sometimes he'd remember a line or law he wondered why he'd forgotten it. There were no answers now. This must be what his mother saw in her last days of living: nothing but an empty city. No answers, no people real enough to care about, just seeing what was lost forever.

"Fine, don't say 'Good Morning,'" Esmeralda complained.

"I wouldn't anyway," he said. "It isn't one."

"You're really worried about him, aren't you?" she asked, walking over to the window and standing next to him.

"Be over there," he demanded, shoving her away. At least he could keep her from touching him again. He hoped. "It is not her welfare I am concerned with." At least not now. He could ignore that for a while at least.

"Her?" she asked.

He sighed. "Right, The Devil take it all," he said to himself before addressing her. "Well, you're not going anywhere and you seem to have a good head about what not to say. The fact is Gaetan is not a boy."

"Who?"

"Do I have to write people's names on their shirts? Gaetan, blonde, little, works for me. You called him 'moriremos' or something."

Esmeralda looked shocked, as if she had just been told she swallowed poison.

"What?" Was there some other kid following him around, or did she just hate Gaetan behind his back? Did she know something about the girl's fate he didn't?

"You just said 'We die,'" she explained. "Not 'Malarrimo.'" Not that 'malarrimo' was so much more cheerful.

"Oh." No wonder he had heard that word before. "Well, that's not his name… her—look, would you just follow what I'm saying if I say Gaetan?"

She nodded.

"Gaetan is not a boy. Gaetan is a little girl. She…well, I'm not very clear on how it works. I never asked."

"Oh," she said, as if she had just been told the answer to life, the universe and everything was 42. So much of the past few months was suddenly a lot clearer, but also a lot more anticlimactic.

"What?" Did he miss something?

"I just thought… he… she… let's just say he looked me in the eyes a bit too soon. I mean she—"

"Whichever," he said. Girl, boy… it didn't matter until someone did something to them that was against the law, and he never liked hearing about those things anyway. "The important thing is that you understand what this means, concerning my reputation."

"You're kinky?" she asked. She didn't think that; he'd had his eye on her so much he nearly tripped on the 'boy' once.

"I don't even know what that means, but I am very sure our minds are going in opposite directions," he said, burying his face in his hands. Maybe he should have Phoebus explain this to her, at least the captain understood the danger. "Dressing up like a man and having a job where she orders them around and has weapons is not something people appreciate women doing, shall we say. Are we on the same page?" 'Are we even in the same library?' Claude thought. If he said 'blue' she'd ask 'how high?' He was sure that if he stood on the Place de Grave platform and asked 'Raise your hand if you're paying attention' to everyone in the city, half the people would turn to their neighbor and ask 'Who's that man up there and who's he talking to?' and the other half would shrug in response and say they were only here because everyone else was.

"So what happens if they find out?" Esmeralda asked.

Claude took his hand away and made a gesture as if angrily trying to pray that she'd stay on the same subject for at least a minute more. He seemingly gave up on hoping and leaned against the window, preferring to watch his own reflection than watch her or the city. "I'm made a mockery of and probably lose my job. The girl goes back on the streets and she has even less of a chance of getting by in the world than before. She'll probably die in a ditch and if I lose enough face, I'll curl up and join her."

Esmeralda moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder, hoping to comfort him, but he angrily pushed her away. "Stop doing that!" he yelled. "No wonder there are so many of you!"

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked, moving further away and sulking. She had played with her toy too hard and it was broken, ruined, and now the pieces hurt her when she tried to get it to work again.

"If anyone knows that, I'd say it's you," he said. "You're the one who'd know what your heathen friends will do. But if you keep that up, you're going be thinking about it Palace of Justice."

"I don't understand what I did wrong," she said. Maybe she could fix her toy. He had been enjoying it all before, so what went wrong? He was like a cat hiding under a chair after you stepped on its tail. Couldn't she just pet him and tell him he was pretty and that she was sorry and it would never happen again? Wouldn't that solve everything?

"You wouldn't," he said angrily. "You people like taking things away and then claiming it's yours."

"Take what?" she asked. Did he think she was looking for his pockets so she could rob him?

"You were after my very soul! You were out to ruin me, to damn me to Hell, to send me to an eternity of flames!" he yelled. He backed away before waving his hands at her. He was determined not to even accidentally touch her now. "What you were trying to do is a sin for which there is no salvation! Send yourself to Hell for all I care, but leave me out of it. Doing such a thing is forbidden outside the sacrament of marriage! God has given me enough hardships thanks to your people; I will not lose him entirely because of your hellish games!"

He stomped over to the door and took the key out form his gown. He was leaving. He should have left long ago.

"I'm sorry; I didn't know." It was all she could think to say. And all this time she was worried about her own safety in that way. Well, not about God, but close enough. He had crosses and crucifixes everywhere. They were on the tassels on the curtains of the bed. There was a rosary left out on his dresser. He had two very intricate crucifixes and a cross mounted on the walls. If he was so devout, he could have at least left an instruction manual around to go with them. Not that she could read, but some pictures would have been handy. "I won't, I mean—" He must think of her as the worst kind of person in the world. More than before, considering how much he hated gypsies. "I thought I could show you not all gypsies are criminals."

"One. One out of God knows how many thousands of you there are. What does that prove?" he asked.

"It proves there were enough of my people to raise me right," she said. "My parents died when I was a baby."

Claude put a hand to his temples. He was going to have to end up justifying just going to sleep at night to this woman. Now he had two gypsy fights on his hands.

"They died of measles," she said.

'Thank you, Lord!' Claude thought. For once he was glad he had nothing to do with someone being dead.

"I was raised by a lot of my people. They're my friends. They're all good people and if there are enough people to raise me and all their children to be good, that should make a difference." Esmeralda had stayed with the better of the gypsies. They were harassed a lot, but none of them were ever truly arrested, because not even Frollo's soldiers would find a reason. It hurt them to find other gypsies stealing. Not only did the thieves make them all look bad, but they got to eat while her people, decent people, went hungry. But they didn't change and neither did she. They were better than that.

"And how many good people are there that raised you?" he asked. "A hundred?"

"Um, no," she squeaked.

"Fifty then?" he asked. He had that cold steel voice of his, the one everyone was used to that said simply 'I win.'

She shook her head.

"Twenty?"

"More or less."

"Fourty-five people," he said, as if that answered everything. "Fourty-five people died one night. You were not even born then. The first casualty of the fire was my father. He told them to get out of his shop and stop bothering the customers and they set his shop on fire that night. It claimed forty-four more people, including my commanding officer. It claimed my mother two years later when she died of grief. Since I was promoted to Judge, I have counted exactly one hundred and two accounts of unprovoked murder from gypsies alone. One person. Maybe twenty-one people. If they are truly that good, then they will be the few exceptions to go free for a while longer than the others and that is all the pity they will get. That is all the pity any of us get." He unlocked the door. "I am leaving now. As in right now. I do not want any more of your tricks. Maybe we will talk again, but I want to be able to leave without you stopping me."

"Just one thing first," she said. "How old are you? I've kept all your other secrets and it's not like I'm going anywhere or that I'll be able to tell anyone anyway."

He sighed. At least she was letting him go. "I am fifty-six. And there is nothing wrong with that."

He walked out of the room and locked the door behind him.

'No,' she thought. 'There is nothing wrong with that. Just with everything else.'


	19. Someone's waiting for you

Frollo's ultimatum had not gone ignored. Neither had Clopins' insults at those who had bothered to perpetrate the crime when they refused to be the ones to return the apprentice for Esmeralda. Everyone in the gypsy camp knew that the revolution was falling apart at the seams. Some families cowered in fear while others backed up those of their overly ambitious friends. Everyone knew the situation and still they threw fuel on the fire by speaking up.

Except one person. Gaetan had no idea what was going on. All she knew was that she would die in here, but only after a very long and merciless time. The guards screamed at her in Spanish. They threw her food at her. They let people mock her, hit her through the bars, and pelt her with trash. She'd managed to shove the rotting debris away to make a little patch clean enough to lie down on. She had only two instances of pity as a prisoner: half the time the guards were not at their posts, thinking she wasn't worth watching; the other was that she was taken out of her cell and given a slight bit of privacy by some women to relieve herself.

She wanted to curl up and die, but Frollo had somehow beaten and threatened into her some sort of spirit, something that refused to be killed, something that demanded at least a chance to take something else down with it.

Her clothes had been torn off in the fight in the forest and she'd been stripped to her underwear before being thrown in her tiny, cramped prison. Her arms were still pulled behind her back and held in place by ropes around her chest and wrists. Her ankles were bound as well. She wasn't even allowed to walk in her captivity.

Someone began stomping around in front of the cell. She didn't care. She didn't even know they had been gone. She just kept staring at the wall and lying on the floor.

She heard them open the door. She still didn't move.

She thought he came in to throw more garbage, maybe yell at her. She never expected a giant hand to land across her mouth and to be forced onto her back.

Another hand grabbed her legs and unfolded them from over her chest before the man landed on top of her bodily. His weight pressing on her chest almost suffocated her, but she was more worried about her ribs breaking or her arms being crushed behind her back.

She tried to struggle. She knew it was useless. Every bit of sense or logic told her that there was no point, but some part of her didn't want to give up just yet. Some part of her wasn't convinced about the bars, the trash, the days of lying in garbage. One suicidal part wanted out to lash out one last time. She tried to turn her head, but he held her down harder, threatening to break her jaw.

He placed his free hand on her braies and she froze. "I always wondered what that gets that bastard off."

She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to will herself somewhere else while this happened. But all she saw behind her eyelids was another gypsy who had grabbed her. He had torn her off her horse and nearly brought a sword down on her head, trying to split it open like chopping wood. He had murdered a child, a family, just to get to her. She never paid attention to any of it before. She thought it was just a random event. The gypsies were crazy. They were evil. It really was Hell in their secret court. Not even God could save her now.

Her eyes shot open as she felt her tear her braies off her hips. She wanted to scream. She wanted someone who cared to hear it, even if they were just going to run and hide and pretend it never happened. But all the gypsies were like this man, like the one who found her in the alley.

………….

Clopin had grabbed the first thing he could find, which was a chair he took out from under someone else, and smashed it down on the man who was supposed to be guarding the jail. The chair broke in half to pieces and he hit the man again as he tried to get up off the girl. The chair was nothing now but two pieces of wood in his hands.

He tossed one away and used his free hand to grab the man and toss him out of the cell and beat him with the remaining stick while swearing at him in Andalusian. He went on for a whole five minutes before he couldn't think up any more insults and sent the man away, throwing the last piece of the chair at his head.

He turned to cast a quick glance at the girl. She was curled up in a silent ball, her legs held up to her chest, doing the best to cover herself. She was shaking, but she wasn't making any noise. Clopin pleaded for his instincts to be wrong.

He turned back to the crowd, which had been silenced by his unrepeatable screaming. "Exactly what part of 'What we do to her, he does to Esmeralda?' did no one understand?" Clopin screamed. "If that was too complicated, what part of 'Pissing Frollo off is a very bad idea' did you miss? And when did we start acting like this? To children no less? If this is what you mean by 'Dios lo queire' then you can all meet me in Hell! No one is to go near this cell but me and anyone who wants to change my mind can come up here and tell me to my face!"

He took out his dagger and waited. He kept waiting. Slowly, frightened parents shoved children back inside huts, people backed away, and those who looked like they actually were going to take up his challenge exchanged glances and found themselves in a circle of people looking for encouragement and the ability to justify what had just happened and none of them had any.

No one wanted to contest their king, but it was only a matter of time, Clopin realized.

He'd seen chickens mate without asking, but at least they waited for the adult feathers to come in and the female could run away. Great, his people had gone from feral dogs to livestock to poultry.

Clopin turned back to the cell. The girl was still in her little ball. She hadn't said anything, she hadn't even screamed since she got here. She just let people hurl whatever they felt like at her and kept quiet. It wasn't like she had anyone who would listen to her if she did make noise, did she? Why shouldn't she go thinking that, given the lame job he'd already done with handing her back all safe and sound?

She wasn't safe staying here and neither were his people. No one was safe if someone took her back, either.

"Are you hurt?" he asked. He stepped into the cell and bent down. She was still bound by the ropes. She wasn't going anywhere. She was an intelligent soldier. A stupid one might have tried to get away and done their best to rush headlong into a crowd after their blood without any knowledge of an escape route, but she knew from the beginning that there were too many people and that she'd be lost even if she miraculously got past them all.

"Here, let me—" Teeth sank into his hand and he went back to swearing in Andalusian. "Yes, I'm sure I deserved that. Can you let go now?" He tried to pull his hand away, but she ground her teeth harder on his fingers. He gave up, figuring wrestling with her was the last thing she needed at this moment. If she was distracted by trying to tear his fingers off, he'd actually have a lot less trouble helping her. Careful to keep from looking like he was doing anything, he slipped the blade under the ropes and sliced them as fast as he could, tearing the bonds around her chest and arms as well as the ones on her wrists. Her jaw slackened slightly in surprise and he quickly cut the ropes around her ankles before she started struggling, now that her hands were free. Instead of fighting him, she grabbed the hem of her undershirt and pulled it down between her legs and refocused her efforts on breaking his knuckles. Now he could try to solve that problem. He took a deep breath and hoped he was fishing in the dark with the wrong bait. "Gaetane?"

She stopped and let go of his hand. Damnit, why did he have to be right? And what was with his kids putting his things in their mouths?

"Gaetane, don't worry," he said, putting a hand on her cheek in what he hoped was a comforting, trustworthy gesture. "I'm not going to hurt you. You can trust me. It's okay, I know Giselle—"

She twisted around and angrily kicked him away from her. She curled up in a hateful ball and glared at him. She was silent and that unnerved him more than any sound she could have made. Even a kicked dog will growl.

"I think I'll give you some time alone," he said and hurried out of the cell. He already had Frollo and every single soldier out for his blood, he didn't need half his own court and most of his family out for it too. He didn't have enough to go around, and that was before the addendums were added to the list.

……….

Claude's problems were just compounding by the day. One of these days, he was going to need somewhere to put hostages. He stopped talking to Esmeralda, afraid of more 'incidents' but also not wanting to end up in an argument that he actually was doing his job perfectly well with someone he was probably going to have hanged anyway. He couldn't very well lock Esmeralda up in the washroom and he didn't need her getting anymore wrong ideas and trying to drag his mind into the same gutter. Tending to Esmeralda was worse than handling Quasimodo in his terrible twos. He had to take his important papers out of his bedroom after he found she had rearranged them. He could only access his own bedroom to retrieve fresh clothes and was reduced to sleeping in his chair. The chair had been part of his mother's dowry and had been carved in celebration for the crusades. Just like them, it had seemed like a good idea at the time, but was an absolute failure in the end. It was a nice chair, but it wasn't made for sleeping in. It could give dead people cramps. Esmeralda asked for water in the middle of the night, demanded things to play with, broke his hairbrush trying to use it herself, had table manners Gaetan started off with so he had to ask his cook to accommodate and got a rolling pin in the ribs before she agreed, splashed water all over the washroom floor, used up his toiletries, and asked him inane and inappropriate questions like why he didn't want her touching his clothes or why she couldn't brush his hair for him.

That had been enough problems for the first two days. After that, Phobeus began to bug him. The gypsies returned to the streets, in twos and threes, and the captain started complaining that he was picking up Frollo's habits of not trusting them even as they went to legally buy bread, something which Frollo didn't see the problem with. After Phoebus tried to help a lost little gypsy kid, only to have it cry and send the horrified mother running up to it and call him something he was sure was very rude in Spanish, Phoebus said he was going to sit the whole situation out in his room at the barracks, even if that meant Claude wouldn't be seeing him until next year. Claude felt it was a small godsend.

Claude gave up on the chair after six days of three hours of sleep each and made himself a make-shift bed similar to Gaetan's and he wondered how she could stand it, especially the first week during which she had nothing but the stone floor. Nevertheless, he fell asleep for sixteen hours, which would have been longer if he hadn't suddenly woken up in a panic when he realized it was Sunday.

After checking on Esmeralda—she needed to use the latrine, wanted to see Djali, was hungry, and for some reason thought he could be convinced to stay and talk if she batted at his ear with her finger, which managed to confuse him, but he pushed her back into the bedroom and crossed himself—he prepared to go see Quasimodo. He hoped God was willing to forgive his failure to show up to mass, he was doing his best and keeping a stranger well in his own house on the Sabbath; it wasn't curing leprosy, but that wasn't his job and besides, curing leprosy sounded a lot more enjoyable.

Quasimodo, Gaetan, Esmeralda and practically Phoebus… why didn't he just adopt the whole of Paris while he was at it? What difference would it make, only two of his kids ever listened to him and the ones that did were still trouble.

He wondered what England was like this time of year. Food that was better used to clean stains from rugs, weather that looked like Lucifer vomited it up, a war made no sense however you looked at it, a country full of people with bad teeth and worse accents who took pride in syphilis and beer Phoebus wouldn't drink. That hadn't looked good when he was lying on a cot at Jacques' nearly choking as he coughed up blood when suffering from the plague.

What was wrong with the world?

He bought a good amount of food for Quasimodo and even some wine. If it helped Phoebus temporarily, it might help the boy. Or it might help with something else, Claude mused. Quasimodo was, after all, his best trained hound and the boy had been jumping at the gate for quite some time now. It was about time he put him to some use.

…………..

"Gaetan?" Quasimodo asked, peering out from behind a post near the stairs. It was deep into the afternoon and no one had showed up today. The weather had been almost as clear as the streets from what the hunchback had seen and mass had been short. What could possibly be keeping her?

"No, Quasimodo, it's me," Claude said. His knee may have been getting better, but apparently stairs were worse than a horse. That chair was looking very comfortable right now.

"Oh, master, I have missed you!" Quasimodo said, leaving the safety of hiding behind the post and almost running to his father, but held back, seeing Claude's face. "But, where is Gaetan?" Quasimodo contemplated Gaetan having been fired for some reason. He was sure that she was skilled enough at cleaning house, having survived the first few days, so that couldn't possibly be it. Frollo had been off his crutches for some time now, so she hadn't been thrown away just because he could get back to work. Besides, she had told him Frollo said two people kept the city and Phoebus in line a lot better than just one. If she hadn't been fired, then something must have happened to her. The only thing that could make sense was that she was injured or had fallen sick, but from Frollo's expression, it wasn't that simple.

Quasimodo had never seen his master in a mood such as this. He'd caused several bouts of fury himself, from wanting to leave, to missing lessons, to even hurting the man by accident by misjudging his growing strength. Frollo had shown up covered in blood and in no mood to play or even put up with blinking wrong many times. Usually anger like that was like a rock smashing a window. There was a terrifying moment as everything went flying and you had to do your best to avoid being hurt, but it only lasted a moment. After that, there was calm and mostly silence and you just picked up the pieces and tried not to hurt yourself on them. His other bad moods were improved just by Quasimodo listening to him complain about the world outside, from intricate robberies to idiot revolutionaries, and the man was happier when he left, proud that his son agreed and at least tried to understand.

This was new. His master was not mad. He was not frustrated. He was not even depressed, as he sometimes was when he felt the world was making a bit too nice of a handbasket and couldn't wait to go to Hell. There was a sadness he'd never seen in his father, and something worse, something scarier than Quasimodo had ever even contemplated: fear. His father was afraid. How was that even possible? He was Minister Claude Frollo. He'd been so perfect as a judge already, just like the biblical ones and rode off to battle like a righteous king of Israel, meeting enemies in battle and smiting them down as God guided those soft hands. What could possible make his father afraid? He wasn't afraid of anything.

"I'm so sorry Quasimodo," Claude said, bending down and patting Quasimodo's cheek. "But that boy will not be returning."

"I…yes, right, boy… I mean… Oops…" Quasimodo turned away and stepped back. He looked at his master, not able to bring himself to try and hide from Frollo for long. Quasimodo was less skilled at lying than Jacques was at cutting hair. If he could hold one in his hand, someone would end up bleeding in seconds. Claude had been skilled at detecting lies from an early age and his abilities just increased in time. Between the two men, Quasimodo would have been less obvious about his insight on Gaetan if he had given his father a soliloquy on it.

"Ah, you know then. Come, we should sit down. A minute of fresh air would do us both some good." Claude put a hand on Quasimodo's deformed back and gently led the boy to the table.

"She told me, master. She's not in trouble over it, is she?"

"No, Quasimodo, neither of you is in trouble over such a thing. You have kept her secret and she has kept yours." Claude's voice was distant, as was his gaze. He was halfway somewhere else, trying to find his way back maybe, or trying to find his way out of something. "It's all very well; it saves a lot of explanation on my part." Well, that part was true. And it did help. She could dump all her feminine things on the boy and leave him out entirely. That is, if she had any feminine things. She knew nothing about cooking, had hburt herself whenevery she attempted anything involving thread or yarn, hated pretty ponies, and was only slightly more knowledgeable about colors than he was. Maybe she talked about soap on occasion with the boy. "I do hope you at least enjoyed her company in the time you had together."

"She was my friend, master," Quasimodo said, almost about to cry. Frollo sat him down on the stool by the table and rubbed his shoulder in sympathy as he sat down himself. It didn't help. Frollo was acting like she had died. But that was impossible. Frollo would never let something like that happen. Things just didn't work that way. Not with Frollo. "What… what happened, master?"

"Those gypsies!" Frollo cried, half hugging Quasimodo. "They attacked and they took her! They have her somewhere and they know her secret! She could be cast out on to the street to die without an ounce of pity if she is found out by the people, but the gypsies? They will kill her if not worse! It is only a matter of time and it may already be too late! If only I could find where they were hiding her, I could finally bring them to justice!" He could see the gears in Quasimodo's head turning now that he'd rearranged the machinery to work the way he wanted.

"What if I could find them?" Quasimodo asked. "I want to try, master. Please, I would feel as if I failed both of you if I didn't!"

"Quasimodo, would you truly risk a world that would just as soon stone either of you for your secrets?" Claude asked, stroking a hand through Quasimodo's hair, leading the boy to meet his glinting eyes. "Would you be able to keep both of you hidden? Would you go up against the people of Lucifer himself?"

Claude rose and walked over to the table with Quasimodo's figurines. "Alas, I doubt I'd ever find another like her," he said, picking through the figurines, for a while handling the figure of Gaetan before setting in back in the pile. "Perhaps it was a mistake to send her here. You didn't need her, after all." He moved the figure of Quasimodo on top of one of the towers of the toy cathedral. "You've always been perfectly fine alone up here. You don't need to put yourself in danger for someone else when you're safe up here. You have your bells and you still have me." He placed the figurine of himself on the opposite tower and 'accidentally' knocked it off with his sleeve as he turned back to Quasimodo, grabbing Gaetan's figurine as he did so. "And you will always have your little figurines." He placed the little wooden Gaetan in his son's hands and closed the boy's fingers over it. "After all, the gypsies can't take either of those away from you, now can they?"

"Master," Quasimodo began, pausing to choke away fear and sadness. "If I left… if I tried… Would you…?"

"My dear boy, do not worry about such trifles," Claude said, softly petting Quasimodo's hair. "I should go. You need time alone with your thoughts and I am sorry to bring you this news, but I felt it was best you knew. However you decide to take this, whatever you do, just remember: I will understand."

Quasimodo hung his head and stayed silent as his father patted his shoulder for a long time before leaving.

Claude smiled as he silently walked down the stairs. 'Go fetch.'


	20. Friend like me

Clopin wondered if Frollo had kept a few tips about childrearing to himself in order to get more favors from him. For someone who seemed to hate the whole ordeal and had said he didn't want anything from him in the first place, there was just too much evidence not to assume this was all just fun and games the minister would laugh at behind Clopin's back about.

Prince had found his hands could make far more trouble than tearing shiny things off people's ears or trying to grab at their chests or hair. Instead of everything he ate either turning to energy to scream or just coming back up, food was now a fuel source for propelling himself as fast and as far as he could while adults were distracted. It wasn't walking and it wasn't even crawling, but his handicap only spurned him on to get into more trouble to make up for it. Not that he wasn't slacking in his work to spit up and scream.

Despite Prince's intentions to explore what the world was like by seeing what was edible and what was breakable, Clopin actually found this new phase convenient. He tied a harness around the baby and took comfort in his healing ears and the fact that no one was trying to yank his hair from his scalp. All he had to do was keep the leash just too short for Prince to cause any real problems, but long enough for the baby to think he could.

Watching one child took his mind off his other one. He had taken down a giant piece of cloth and said 'Because I say so!' when people complained. He tacked it up in front of the jail for a little privacy. Not just for Gaetane, but for himself too. Not only would people stop throwing whatever they felt like at her—it had taken him an hour to clean everything out and then someone decided to try and put things back the way they were in his absence—but he didn't have to see that people like that were just a few yards from him. It also made a good deterrent for them because they never knew when he was watching her or had left momentarily.

They hated her and he could sort of understand why. She was Frollo's kid, a closer ally than that shiny blonde man that followed both of them around. He wasn't too thrilled with Frollo having an apprentice himself, but even a man who cheerfully took charge of hanging people had his limits. Killing people, sure, that was fine. Killing kids, no, not unless they really started acting like Frollo and frankly his puppet looked more like Frollo than she did in her black clothes and short hair. She didn't even have a hat.

Clopin didn't feel it was right to throw things at people who couldn't get away and he certainly wasn't a man to go around violating women no matter what their age, or even letting someone else do it.

He might as well have done all this, though. Frollo wouldn't really see much difference, and neither would Giselle. She'd probably never trust Prince around him again and the two would end up dead soon, given her income trouble. Esmeralda was going to be better off dead if Frollo kept true to his ultimatum and Gaetane was barely eating. Given the anger and distrust from half the gypsies, his life wasn't going to last very long either. As much as answering to God about these poor souls seemed like a much better idea than dealing with them directly, he couldn't just sit by and let any of it happen. He needed a plan.

……………

Even Prince, who had a barely developed sense of human beings, could sense his father's emotional turmoil and he felt he wanted to help. He stopped exploring the basic physics and taste of the curtain and started to wail. As much as he wanted to help, he didn't understand that his way of saying 'this air bubble trapped in my throat hurts' and 'I want you to feel happier' sounded exactly same.

"Not you too," Clopin said. He pulled the baby towards him by the leash and picked him up. "How come you're quiet for Frollo and not me?" He gave Prince his hat and tried bouncing the baby on his knee when he threw it away. "What's wrong with you, are you sick?"

In response, Prince vomited slightly and continued to complain, though not at nerve-grating volume. Why couldn't the adult understand that he was trying to be helpful?

"And why do I have the opposite problem with you? I said I was sorry," he said to Gaetane. She hadn't said anything to him in the two days he'd been guarding her and she only ate for one. She refused to sleep under his watch, and nothing he told her kept her from jerking awake and digging her nails into her skin to keep from dozing off in his presence, even while he slept at his post.

"You know, you're going to inherit this hat someday," Clopin said, retrieving the thrown object and putting it back on his head. If he survived any of this, he was going to save up to pay to have it washed thoroughly. "You'll inherit all this too, but I don't think you want it. The leader of a bunch of hopeless people, half of which don't deserve this refuge and the other half too scared of the first half to do anything about them." He turned to Gaetane again. "You could have had all this yourself. Look, I did my best to take care of Giselle and I'm still helping out when I can, even if it's not much. I promised her I'd help her little girl and I'd be a daddy for her and the baby, too. I know I'm hardly doing a good job at any of this, but I'm trying!"

Clopin always knew what to say around kids. It may have been the wrong thing to say, but he said it. During one of his shows about Frollo's Wild Ride, a little boy burst into tears just when the story was getting good. He told the kid he was interrupting, only for the boy to start arguing that Frollo was nice. Clopin demanded to know what the hell the boy was talking about only to be told that the boy's father had been a guard and had been recently killed. Frollo had stopped by in the middle of the night to tell the boy's mother and to offer condolences and left the two with compensation and a promise of a pension and saying the man was good soldier. The boy didn't see how his father could work for someone evil, and the boy's own story had the whole audience sobbing. Clopin's attempts to comfort the children not only didn't work, but got him arrested for attempted child abduction. The whole incident had actually made him care for Frollo a lot less, but at least those kids did something when he spoke to them. Gaetane barely blinked at him.

"Here, you want to talk to your baby brother?" Clopin asked, holding Prince up by the bars.

Prince recoiled and started to sob at being handed to such a frightening stranger. She was dark and angry and was probably going to eat him.

Gaetane didn't blink and just glared at Clopin, watching him the way a caged animal waits for someone to be stupid enough to feed them their finger.

"Why am I so much worse at this than a guy who thinks drowning kids is the answer?" Clopin asked, setting Prince on the ground.

"Here, you want to talk to the puppet?" He waved his puppet in front of her, making it clap. "He likes you."

No reaction. Well, Prince had been afraid of them and had tried to attack it in self-defense; at least she wasn't doing that. "Here, I've got one of Frollo," he said, trying with his other puppet. "I'll paint a smile on him if you just say something. Anything. I don't care what it is, just say something."

"I have to pee," Gaetane whispered.

"Well, that's technically something," Clopin admitted. He sighed. "I'll go talk to someone."

…………………….

Clopin was pretty sure someone was going to kill him for all this. Instead of trying to figure out how not to die, he went over his list of enemies and wondered how to keep the number of victims down to just him and of those, who it would be a better way to go by.

Frollo was out; he'd kill half of Paris over this. No going to him no matter what his parenting skills were like.

However, keeping Gaetane here wasn't going to solve anything either. People were getting more and more restless with the soldiers everywhere. He was back to having to break up fights, which ranged from hating him to hating other people over their opinions of him to just being mad in general and every time he tried to step in and either help everyone talk it over or simply threaten everyone involved, they all united against him for not having solved anything yet. Whatever he invoked in people, trust, fear, a scapegoat, was waning and he couldn't take on several thousand people, especially with his hands full of kids.

Good, innocent gypsies were going to die if he took a side in this backwards, moronic version of a civil war. He couldn't see them, but they were there. He knew it. He hoped it. But they didn't trust him. They didn't want him on their side and they didn't even want to be a side at all. They weren't an option and they weren't going to do anything anyway.

If neither side would help, he'd have to go to a third party. Who else did he have? And how could he get Esmeralda out of the picture?

Giselle could only hold on to the children for so long, but she was a bit more preferable to get killed by. At least he'd finally fulfill his promise of finding her daughter for her. Wait, Giselle could fix all this. She was French! Giselle could drop her off, the kid could make something up about escaping and if she didn't, Giselle would already have beaten Frollo to killing him by that time anyway. That kept the casualties to him, Giselle and Prince. Still not good. What he needed was someone to give Prince to. Who did he know who was good at randomly rescuing babies? He had to hurry, Monday night had checked out of work and Tuesday morning had begun to fill in. Who was even awake in the middle of the night who'd be concerned about the welfare of some random gypsy baby?

………………

Gaetane scrambled awake before Clopin had pushed the curtain aside. Prince was in his arms, asleep and quiet for the first time she'd even seen the baby like that.

Clopin was quiet. He faced Gaetane, but he wasn't paying much attention. He was waiting for something to happen and he was more concerned Prince would wake up and holler or someone outside would do something. His whole court was sleeping and he hoped it was more like his son than his daughter, fast asleep and undisturbable. "You know, some reaction would be nice," he said.

Nothing happened. He wasn't surprised.

"Look, this has gone on way too long. None of this should have happened and I'm sorry and I know you're not going to be too happy with me after this no matter what. If you want to go back to Frollo for God knows why, you can. You can have me arrested and tortured and killed for all I care." He waited.

She blinked.

"Well, say something!"

Nothing happened.

"Fine. I can understand. You don't have to talk to me and you're certainly not going to like me anytime soon, but I need you to trust me. You can hate me all you want, but I just need you to go along with me for about an hour and then you're free. I'm not going to hurt you and you can watch Giselle kill me if that makes you feel any better."

For a long while, nothing happened, but eventually Gaetane gave a short nod.

Clopin sighed in relief. "I'm going to go do something really, really stupid. I'll be back as soon as I can. Please don't change your mind in the meantime."

"I won't," she whispered.

"Wow," he muttered before leaving. He hoped there wasn't anything he hadn't taken into consideration.

……………

Getting up to the surface of Paris, even traversing one of the less-used tunnels of the court, had taken a lot longer than Clopin remembered. Gaetane did well on her part. She let him slip a bag over her head and lead her out. She never tried to run away or free herself and didn't even stray from him leading her about or turning her around to make sure she couldn't track her way back down. It was depressing. She wasn't doing this to get out, she was doing this out of some sort of resignation. If she was doing this because she wanted something, it was just for the chance to stand up and walk, not because she wanted freedom. She probably didn't think she'd get it.

He walked her a few blocks away from where they'd come up and took the bag off her head. "Come on," he whispered. "You can't get caught looking like that." He pulled her into some shadows and waited before slipping past a soldier who turned out to be asleep. He picked up some pebbles from the street. He distracted two more soldiers by throwing the pebbles past them, making sure to hit something that made a loud noise when the stones hit.

He soon slipped into an alley Gaetane recognized even in the moonless, starless dark.

"Giselle!" he whispered, throwing a pebble at the side of the brothel near her room. "Giselle, wake up!"

A hand pushed a piece of cloth from a hole in the wall that acted as a window, and then disappeared. Whatever happened next, one way or another, Clopin was glad it was all over.

……….

Gaetane herself didn't think she'd survive very long. She doubted Frollo would take her back. She was sure she'd failed and he didn't want anything to do with her anymore. She just wanted out of that world full of gypsies. She didn't even like this gypsy much, even if his words earlier did sound familiar.

She had never contemplated going back to her mother. She had thought it was better off if she just disappeared from the woman. Did her mother really miss her? What did it matter, her mother couldn't feed her. Her mother probably couldn't hide her either. Still, one chance to see her again, just one smile before she had to run off and disappear on the streets again would be wonderful. She missed her mother, even when she had real food and a warm bed and knew what it was like to hold real money in her hands. If only the only way to get to her mother wasn't through this man.

Whoever he was, he was barely paying attention to her. He had his hand on her wrist, but he was waiting for Gisselle to come down the stairs and out the door of the brothel. He was listening for soldiers. No doubt they couldn't see them in the darkness.

Someone else could see them though, as they hid right behind them.

The gypsy was struck in the head and knocked to the ground by someone's fist. The attacker was right next to Gaetane and she never saw him. She backed away as quietly as she could.

All could see was a lumpy shadow turning toward her. They had seen her. They knew everything now. They were going to come after her any second now.

She wanted to scream, but then everyone would know. She might be able to get away from one stranger, but not the entire army.

"Gaetan!" the stranger yelled, grabbing the man—just another shadow—and threw him back as he tried to go after her. "It's me, Quasimodo."

She grabbed her undershirt and pulled it down as far as it would go. He couldn't see her like this. Not him. She was disgusting. She was pathetic. She was worthless. She was worse than trash. She couldn't face him like this, barely dressed, smelling of garbage and squalor, a shivering, sickening wreck.

He took a step closer to her and she panicked, taking no notice of a silvery flash in the dark. "Don't!" she yelled.

There was only one thing she could do, one thing she'd wanted to do since she'd been attacked and she finally had the chance.

She ran. She didn't care where, so long as there was no one else.

There were screams behind her, followed by shouts from soldiers. She leapt over a gate between two houses and pressed up against the walls as they ran with torches past her.

She waited. She hoped. She prayed. They passed her without notice and she took off again. There was only one place for her to go, one person she could trust, one person she didn't care about them seeing her this way.

………………

The brothel was near the barracks, though if asked, everyone would say they never noticed or deny it flat out. Anyone in Gaetane's way had run to the battle, leaving the few streets to traverse bare and empty. Even the dogs and rats had been frightened away. Only a hundred feet away and she could hide from everyone, even someone who had risked his life to rescue her. But she couldn't go back. She couldn't save him.

They were going to kill him and it was all her fault. No, there was still a chance. Phoebus could help. He always wanted to help. She was just some scared, defenseless little girl to him and she actually felt like one now. He wasn't as comforting as Quasimodo would be, but his viewpoint of her wouldn't change. In truth, she wasn't as concerned about what he thought of her. He wasn't really close; he just wanted to share his opinions, not any real part of his life. He wasn't someone she'd feel so worried about falling apart in front of. She needed his little fantasy where the world would stop and hold still while you were scared over your own stupidity.

No one was about around the barracks, but someone would be reporting to him soon. She ran to his door and pounded on it, praying he'd answer before anyone else heard her.

The door opened slightly and she threw herself inside, slamming into him and nearly knocking him over.

"Would people let me put something on before—Gaetan?" he asked, pushing her back before he noticed who she was.

She hugged herself tightly, wondering if even he would see some reason to dislike her. He seemed mad.

He sighed and closed the door. "We've got to get you back to—" Yes, waking Frollo up at this time of night and then shoving a traumatized little girl into his arms and taking away the one thing that kept him from tearing up the foundations of Paris was a brilliant idea. "Never mind. That's not a good idea, just now. What happened--?" Bad move there. He didn't need to know what happened and it was pretty damn obvious anyway. He really wanted to be spared any details, especially while wearing barely any clothes and having had almost as little sleep. "Let me think about this logically."

He put his hand to his temples. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. He had to think. Frollo didn't know what to do. It was up to him to come up with something. She was depending on him to figure things out. He never realized how blank his mind was until now. Frollo was right. Why was Frollo right? That wasn't how things should work. But he wasn't coming up with anything himself and there was no one else to go to. Why couldn't he have stayed with the war?

"That's not working either," he said.

Gaetan was calming down. He wasn't mad at her directly and wasn't going to take it out on anything anytime soon. Seeing her relax slightly made Phoebus feel better and the two stood there in mutual confusion. The immediate danger was gone, but one of them had to think of something eventually.

"Can you pretend I didn't just say a bunch of stupid things and stay here and try to feel a bit better?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I'm going to go tell Frollo I found you before he kills someone. Long story."

"Don't tell him where I am, please!" she exclaimed.

"What?" he asked. And he thought the war he left was a big pile of crazy ideas. "And calm down. I won't. Just try to be kinda quiet." This could get a lot crazier really fast.

"He was right! The Court of Miracles does exist!" she said.

Phoebus knew someday he'd have to deal with a barely dressed girl almost in tears yelling at him while he was in his underwear late at night, but this wasn't how he'd pictured it.

"I hate it! It's a horrible place! But I don't know where it is! I'm sorry!"

"You're sorry?" Phoebus asked. His head hurt worse.

"Ask him… tell him Philemon 14."

"I'll try to remember all that, don't worry," he said. At the moment he was so tired he needed help remembering his own name. "You can hang out here for a while. I won't tell him where you are until I know what he's going to do." By 'know' he meant 'agree with after he explains it in very tiny words.' This must be what Frollo was going through. He never thought he'd feel sympathy for than man and he'd spent only a few moments with her in his room. "Just do me a big favor." He hoped he wasn't going to regret his choice of words. "Find my pants for me, please."


	21. An ordinary Miracle

Claude was in no mood to open his door. He had traded getting enough sleep for having his hair act the same way Gaetan's did the first day he'd met her. At the moment, his short grey hair looked like a flustered chicken and he had yet to replace the hairbrush Esmeralda had broken. He was dressed in his undershirt and nightshirt and the floor was a lot more comfortable than getting up and telling whoever was at his door to go away—or just kill them, depending—but they insisted on pounding as loudly as they could on it.

"Oh, thank God it's you," Claude said, not surprised to find the answer to who thought it was a bright idea to wake him up at God Knows When at night. "I was having a nightmare I had a gypsy locked in my bedroom and I had spent a week waiting for you to find a little girl."

"Um…" Phoebus said. He not only didn't know how to respond to that, but to how the man looked. He was very thankful he'd taken the time to get fully dressed.

"I was being sarcastic," Claude said and closed the door on the captain.

Not to be outdone by a piece of wood, Phoebus opened it and tried again. "Humor doesn't suit you, sir."

"Neither does sleeping on my own floor and having to entertain an illiterate woman with the morals of her own goat. Now who's dead?"

"No one, sir—"

"What's on fire?"

"Nothing—"

"Then I don't care," Claude said and closed the door again.

Phoebus opened the door and both men wondered why the other didn't take the hint. "Sir, would you just listen to me?"

"That's been my problem for the last two minutes!" Frollo complained. "What could you possibly want at this time of night? A Bedtime story? Why don't you and Esmeralda just ask to jump on the bed for an hour?"

"Sir, I found Gaetan!"

Now Claude didn't know how to respond.

"I can't tell you where she is, things got kinda complicated."

"Phoebus, except for you, everything's complicated lately," Claude said. "I take it she's alive since you said no one's dead. What can you tell me, first off?"

"They took her to their Court of Miracles!" Phoebus said.

"The Court of Miracles?" Claude asked, his brain suddenly interested enough to wake up.

"She says she doesn't know where it is," Phoebus said. "They… they found out she was a girl."

"This is not good," Claude said flatly.

"They… kinda… it gets worse."

Claude didn't want to reply this time.

"Sir?" Phobus asked. "They…um…"

"I understand!" Claude scolded. "I'm not an idiot!" Admittedly, his mother had refused to explain such things that far, for it wasn't something a gentleman should know and his father had said 'ask your mother,' even if Claude told him his mother said to go to him instead, so Claude ended up learning the more gruesome details about the facts of life after dragging a very unfortunate woman to Jacques and the doctor explained it as nicely and vaguely as possible.

Claude put his hands up to explain to Phoebus the list of priorities, but put them down immediately when he found his brain had gone back to sleep. "Where is she?"

"I can't tell you," Phoebus said.

"For someone trying to help, you're doing a very bad job at all this."

"She's worried she's in trouble," Phoebus said. "She said something about…what was it? Philistine some number…"

"Philemon?" Claude asked.

"Sounds familiar. I'm sorry, it's late," Phoebus said. Admittedly, he had never read The Bible. He hadn't read much of anything save for maps. He was lucky he could read. Most of what he knew about The Bible came from superior officers. He got the gist of it down, and they had perfected the angry yelling part of it.

"Yes. Fine. Here is what will happen: I am going to go to bed. She is going to stay wherever you left her and I am going to trust you to keep her hidden. Tomorrow I will figure out what to do with Esmeralda. Tell Gaetan she is not in trouble and that she has one week."

"One week?" Phoebus asked. It must be later than he thought, he was missing whole sentences. "One week to what?"

"One week to get better."

"Just one week?" Phoebus protested. "Sir, I know I was vague, but—"

"I said to get better, not perfect," Claude corrected Phoebus. "I need her competent and coherent, that's all. I can't have her breaking down over it as my apprentice!"

"She's going back to work in a week?" Phoebus exclaimed. He hoped this was due to at least one of them not getting enough sleep.

"I put her on a horse and she stays close to me. I'll yell at people for her. I just need to keep up appearances. I need her to ride and wash the floor. She doesn't even have to talk for a while."

"But what do I do with her in the meantime?" Phoebus asked. "I've got some kid in my room! I can't just keep her there for a whole week."

"Why, do you have a real bed?" Claude asked. "If I wasn't so sure you two would be on each other like a pair of rabbits, I'd have you watch Esmeralda." Admittedly, he didn't want Phoebus anywhere near Esmeralda no matter what the situation, but he didn't want to admit it to himself, let alone to the captain. "Get a hotel and stay there. Go to the brothel and stay over for all I care. From what I've heard, she's got a lot more to worry about with you in the bed than you do."

"Sir, that's the problem," Phoebus said. "What do I do?"

"You don't do anything."

"How does that help?"

"Phoebus, this is not alchemy. You leave her alone and if she wants to talk, she'll bring it up. Just tell her that's what you're going to do. If you can't figure out sleeping arrangements go talk to Jacques and ask him how he keeps from squishing that cat of his."

"I… never mind. Thank you, sir."

Phoebus turned and closed the door behind him.

Claude sighed. Well, at least he could get back to sleep. He blinked and suddenly the door was open again and Phoebus was in the doorway again.

"What is—hey!" Claude protested in vain as he was dragged out the door and down the stairs. "Phoebus, what is this all about?"

"No time, sir!" Phoebus said, dragging Claude to the street and just pulling harder to steady him when he tripped on a sleeping goat. "Where's your horse, again?"

"Dead."

"Right, damn. Here, take my horse," Phoebus said, lifting Frollo up and shoving his on the saddle. "Get to the hospice, now!" Phoebus shouted and slapped Achilles's rump and sent the horse running down the street before Claude could fight back and reprimand him.

………….

Claude didn't exactly arrive at the hospice as much as he was dumped in front of the door as Achilles shook him off and left, waving his tail in Claude's face.

"Same to you," Claude said. Phoebus was going to have another horse to find.

Claude walked into the hospice and crossed his arms at the sight in front of him. That damned puppeteer, whatever his name was, Claude couldn't remember and didn't care to, sat on one of the cots with his arm in a sling and his head and eye bandaged. He was in a fit of choking as if he were dangling in a noose and he rubbed his neck with his good hand. Beside him sat a woman who, as was made obvious by the marks on her dress and lack of headwear as the law stated, had been originally hired to do a bit more than pat him on the back on a bed. The two were surrounded by a semi-circle of soldiers pointing spears at them. "A long and boring story indeed," Claude said. "I know the reputation there is that you can buy anything, but the Val d'Amor doesn't offer babysitting services."

The puppeteer took a deep breath to yell something, only gag and send himself into a worse fit. The spears were shoved closer.

"I don't blame you for being in one of your moods, but may I ask you not to make my job more difficult?"

"I'm finished Jacques," Claude said. "What happened?"

"Someone beat him up and nearly strangled him," Jacques said. Jacques had a way with people, including Frollo. Shooing away solicitors and dealing with angry men who dragged the battle to the hospice with them and tried to continue it were like blinking with Jacques. He let life complicate itself instead of taking an active role in it. Jacques was dressed in his own nightshirt, which was already patterned most everywhere with stains from hundreds of previous late night disasters, but which had recently gained several large blood stains. Jacques himself had gained a black eye, which had taken time away from dabbing with a cold cloth to talk to Frollo. "I thought you were the smart one."

"Jacques, it has to be three in the morning—"

"It's five."

"I meant what happened to drag me down here?" Claude asked.

Jacques lifted a finger to start explaining, then put it down. The night was made of pathetic, discarded gestures. "Just follow me."

Jacques pointed to a cot in the farthest corner in the hospice that was hidden away in the ugliest donation blankets Claude had ever seen. Whoever was behind them was surely having nightmares, no matter what their state, even dead. Jacques followed Claude as he walked over to the cot, which must mean something was very wrong.

It wasn't unusual for cots to be covered. Jacques respected people's desire for privacy and no one wanted to see a beaten gypsy and his lady of the night cooing over each other and trying to make up cliché lines at each other while sick.

Claude pushed one of the blankets back and peered in. The only light came from a tiny candle on a stand beside the cot, the flame small and probably sick itself. The candle barely lit anything up, just a tiny halo around itself and nothing else. With the light shed from the stronger candles beyond allowed in, he could make out why he'd been summoned here.

"Quasimodo!" he cried out, shoving Jacques out of the curtain of blankets. Despite the darkness, he took his son's hand away from his own face and wrapped his arms around the boy's head. "My poor, innocent Quasimodo!" Claude had no idea where the words were coming from. He had no idea where this ache he felt in his chest came from either. He had not felt such pain since his mother began to let herself slip away to join his father. His little human dogs had been run down by gypsies and he felt he was the one bleeding. He closed his eyes and as Quasimodo cried against him, he remembered the last words anyone close to him had said. He had asked his mother if she hated him. That was all he could come up with, noticing her sudden depression. 'No, Claude. I do not hate you.' That was the last thing she said to him, to anyone.

"Master, forgive me," Quasimodo whispered.

Claude stood up and adjusted Quasimodo's head up to sit down and set the boy's head in his lap. He took his son's giant hand in his own. "Quasimodo, I told you, I would understand."

"Gaetan's gone, master."

"I found her. She's safe, Quasimodo," he whispered. They were nowhere near the soldiers and Claude could hear Jacques complaining past the curtains. They could talk freely.

"Se ran from me, master. I tried to rescue her from the gypsy, but she ran from me. She knew it was me. I failed you."

"No, Quasimodo, no you didn't," Claude said.

The boy shivered in his father's lap. He wasn't quite slurring, but his speech was slowed and his words kept threatening to trail off and get lost. He was talking as if he were drugged or… or bleeding to death.

"It was not you, my boy. It was the gypsies, Quasimodo. They tortured her. They hurt her and confused her. She could not tell friend from foe. She is safe now, and getting better, but if you want to see her again, you will have to let the doctor tend to that wound."

"But, master—" Quasimodo tried to move, only to flinch in pain and curl up against the wound.

"It may hurt, but Jacques is a good man," Claude said. "I trust him. I will not let him do anything wrong, I promise."

"I'm scared," Quasimodo whimpered. He started to cry from the pain. "Don't leave me, master."

"I will stay right here for you, Quasimodo." The gypsies had found a way into his head and were pillaging and burning. There were places in his mind he felt were safe and he left them buried under cobwebs and had forgotten about them almost entirely. But now those safe, perfectly calm parts of his mind had been set aflame and he watched helplessly as the beautiful facades were consumed by ugly scorching black and eaten away in seconds.

All the pieces the gypsies had taken away amounted to one thing: he was no longer in control. He felt safe in control. So long as he was safe in his mind, he could keep Paris safe in their homes. Every attack on the people and the city he had struck back at and won. Every attack on him he'd pushed back and easily triumphed over. But no one had ever attacked his mind since the archdeacon had twenty years ago and he'd still won. Quasimodo was his. He was in control. He had molded the boy the way he wanted and he was just another bit of power he held in his hand.

But that power, that armor, that feeling of security that had replaced people with things had been stripped away and he was locked in a dungeon and being toyed with, given false hopes for escape for others' entertainment to watch as he futilely chased after them.

These were his dogs, his horses, his pets and people, his and only his. They had been stolen away and ripped open and tossed back, reduced to nothing more than frail humans and given a pain he could not escape from sharing. They were not things anymore, but living beings with souls and he was forced to see such a truth and suffer as he never had before. He never felt he should bother with such care and never felt he was capable of it, especially for them, but it was there. An affection that shredded his chest like poisoned claws helped him through the night as he watched Jacques sew up a wound on Quasimodo's side. Whatever newfound painful power he hand now held on tightly to his son's hand and cradled his head as he waited for the boy to fall asleep long after Jacques had gone.

………………

"Jacques—" Claude started to ask as he walked into Jacque's back room, only to be cut off by the doctor and the need to stifle a yawn.

"He'll be fine," Jacques said, adjusting his long tunic over his shirt. "Just tell him no bell ringing for a few weeks or his wound with come open again."

"You're getting dressed?" Claude asked. He was still in his nightshirt, which had collected its own stains.

"It's eight o'clock," Jacques said.

"Can I break my arm and stay here for the day?" Claude asked. It wasn't that he needed sleep; it was that he already didn't want to deal with any of this, but without sleep, he couldn't even remember anyone's names and match disasters to them. It was all a blurry, sorry-looking mess of people he knew and all he could remember at the moment was that he didn't want to even have known half of them.

"Claude, can we talk?"

"Jacques, this is not the time. I want to go to bed and by that I mean I want to sleep. Besides, I thought you said you weren't interested in me."

"You are tired," Jacques said. Jacques looked out the door. The soldiers weren't paying any attention to either of them. In fact, they were exchanging lewd and badly thought up jokes about the gypsy and his hired woman, shaking at least one of their victims awake to tell one of their more amusing jokes to them. Jacques closed the door to the back room anyway. "You've never really made my job all that easy and I can't blame you, but do you mind explaining something? Consider it a favor. You can stay here."

"If this is about Phoebus doing something stupid, I'm afraid I can't."

"It's about the boy, the bell ringer," Jacques said. "I couldn't get near him and the soldiers didn't want to try after he nearly killed that man while he had a dagger in his side. I barely got it out before he clocked me across the face."

"Jacques, am I involved in this little story at all?"

"He demanded to see you, so I had your cute blonde bring you here. Personally, I would have chosen a better time of day if I could. Claude, who is he?"

"He's the bell ringer of Notre Dame. May I go to sleep now?"

"I mean, how did you do that?"

"Do what?" Claude asked, trying to shake sleep away for a few moments more. "Jacques, are you well? You sound like Phoebus."

"You were holding onto him like he was a frightened puppy," Jacques said. "What was that all about? You didn't do that when they put your horse down."

"He's my son," Claude said. "May I please go to sleep now?"

"But…you…it…he…" Jacques said, waving his hand around in little circles and pantomiming what was going on in his head. The wheel was turning, but the hamster had had a stroke. "Huh?"

"The archdeacon made me adopt him," Claude said. "I really don't like to talk about it."

"Claude, as your doctor and the closest thing you have to a friend, I advise you not to talk to that man ever again."

"If I could, things would certainly start improving."

"But you've never been married and you only got that girl a few months ago and she can't have been much help anyway. How in the world would you know how to take care of children?"

"Jacques, will answering this get me to a bed faster?"

"Yes," Jacques said. Jacques may have been a good and rather ethical doctor, but he always knew how to extract secrets from anyone he felt like, even those who weren't injured.

"I wrote a letter to the archdeacon's mother for help. Now stop giggling."

"I'm sorry, but—" Jacques burst into a short fit of laughter before containing it again. "You have to tell me some of her stories about him."

"Yes, excommunication would just top my day off right now with all the other things I have to handle," Claude said. "Look, if I can't go to sleep, can you just kill me?"

"One more thing first," Jacques said. For the first time since Claude told the man he wished he shared Jacques' disposition as an excuse to keep the archdeacon from trying to throw women his way now and then, Jacques was embarrassed and trying to hide something he couldn't anymore. "You are the last person I'd ask, but now that… well… here."

Jacques moved a chair covered in his hideous blankets away from his work table and retrieved a basket from underneath it. Inside the basket, badly wrapped in the last of the blankets, was a familiar baby. The only thing different about the child since Claude had last seen it was that it was silent and asleep, a state Claude couldn't imagine the child in. "Consider it another favor, a very big one. I know that's what got you into the mess you're in right now, but I really need you to take this off my hands."

"Jacques, I am not the orphanage."

"It's not mine," Jacques said, as if that were all the reason Claude should take it.

"Of course it's not yours. You don't need to explain that part to me," Claude said, shoving the basket at Jacques. "But I'm not adopting any more children. Especially that one, considering where it obviously came from!"

"Claude, I'm holding it for the archdeacon. He said the father was in some sort of trouble and would come and get it as soon as he could. He gave it to me and I had to drug it to shut it up! Can't you just… put it somewhere or something?"

Claude didn't know where to start. He knew where he shouldn't, though. Saying that the father was in the next room under arrest for child abduction, attempted murder of a public official, trespassing, and assault on both a citizen and another public official was just going to make Jacques keep him awake longer. "Well, you're a doctor, so you probably haven't poisoned it." Was that good or bad? Claude figured he didn't care and the baby's health could get in the back of the line of problems he couldn't deal with right now.

"Tell that man if he tries to rescue one more baby, he's going to end up killing it." Notre Dame had actually been a convenient place to leave a baby. Keep it inside, leash it to a post where it couldn't get free and wouldn't hurt itself or anything else, and he could go to work and come back at the end of the day. A doctor's workshop, however, was not a good place to leave a baby and Claude honestly wondered how Jacques kept his cat from accidentally setting fire to the place. "Fine. I'll watch it for a while and I'll figure something permanent out in the morning."

"It is morning," Jacques said. He looked at the baby and shrugged. He shoved it back under the table.

"Tomorrow morning," Claude said. "If I don't sleep until then, I am certainly not spending another late night babysitting any more people. Which reminds me, I know exactly how you start to pay me back."

"Start?"

"Do you know how to change a diaper?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Do you know how much children that age scream?"

"Um…"

"Are you willing to explain to the archdeacon why one of us couldn't deal with it anymore and smothered it with a pillow or drowned it in a well?"

"Can't I just go to jail?"

"Not if I can't."


	22. Be Our Guest

Jacques had an easy time getting into Claude's house, but a difficult time understanding what was going on in it. He nearly got a pair of tongs jammed in his face, but at the last minute the cook apologized for yelling when she recognized him and offered to cook something for him. He refused and said he'd already eaten and silently wondered who she was. He'd seen lots of old women in his profession and he wondered what an old lady he'd never heard about from Claude was doing at his house.

Jacques had made it to the door and took out the key when another of Claude's collection of living oddities introduced itself. "Excuse me, but I'm wearing that," Jacques said to a goat, who was chewing on the skirt of his tunic. "Is your name Esmeralda?"

The goat bleated at him and scowled. Jacques didn't even know goats were capable of doing that.

"I'll take that as a 'no,'" Jacques said.

The goat stood up, crawling up his legs and sniffed his pockets. Finding nothing it considered edible and figuring the man wasn't going to let it chew on his clothes, the goat wandered off to investigate a dead rat and old stew someone had tossed out their window in the night.

'Well, third times the charm…' The old woman couldn't be Esmeralda, because she didn't need checking up on. The goat seemingly said it wasn't Esmeralda. All Claude had told him was 'Go check up on Esmeralda, here's the key. See if you can make yourself comfortable, you don't want to be around this baby.' Jacques had assumed he could easily find out who this 'Esmeralda' was, deal with her in a few seconds, and spend the day wandering around town until he got wind of a real emergency or someone fun to annoy. Now, as he opened the door and went up the stairs, he wondered if he'd find a giraffe Claude hadn't thought was important enough to mention. That man was going to explain a few things if he wanted this baby favor ever taken care of.

Claude's hall was empty, save for a badly made bed next to a table with a pile of clothes on it. "Of all the things this man's been bringing home, he couldn't have found a decorator," Jacques mused to himself. "Now, if I were something called Esmeralda, where would I be? Well, not here, obviously."

Jacques opened the first door he found—it wasn't a hard choice, given there were only two available. "No, I'm pretty sure she's not his bathtub. Okay, door number two." Jacques said to himself as he closed the door to the washroom.

Jacques found the door locked. Why would Claude go around locking random rooms in his own house, especially when he had a crazy warrior woman and a hungry goat guarding it and when pigeons were too scared to perch on his roof, given his title? Shrugging, Jacques unlocked the door and opened it.

"I'm hungry and I—huh?" Suddenly there was a barely clad gypsy woman in the doorway.

"And I thought everyone was joking when they said Claude was insane," Jacques said. "Let me guess: Esmeralda, right?"

"Um, yes," she said.

"I was kind of expecting a goldfish," Jacques said. "What happened to the rest of your shirt?"

"What rest of my shirt?" Esmeralda asked. "And who are you?

"I'm the doctor," Jacques said.

"But I'm fine," Esmeralda said.

"Miss, that's a matter of opinion and right now you're the only one in this house with it," Jacques said. "Could you point those in a different direction?"

"Where's Claude?" Esmeralda said, crossing her arms and turning to the side.

"He's over at the hospice," Jacques said. Why couldn't she be a goldfish?

"He's hurt?" Esmeralda asked, suddenly concerned.

"Probably not," Jacques said. Let's see, a baby, a cat, a huge boy who was recovering from being attacked and told people he didn't like to be near them by trying to punch them through the nearest wall… exactly how safe was that situation and how much of the hospice was going to be left when he returned? "He had to go take care of his son… sort of."

"Oh, Quasimodo," she said.

"He told you and not me?" Jacques asked. Frollo wouldn't tell gypsies his own name if he didn't care to. Those things couldn't possibly be nice enough for Claude to go around telling his most embarrassing secrets to, could they? Times like this made Jacques wish he could at least understand why other men liked people shaped like her.

"Everyone knows," she said.

"Apparently I don't fall into the category of 'everyone,'" Jacques muttered. "Look, who are you and why in the world did he think it was a good idea to put you in his bedroom? Because with him it's not the usual reason."

"I'm Esmeralda,"

"Yes, we've covered that part. Can we pretend I'm not up on all this 'common knowledge' stuff?"

"Let's see, where to start," Esmeralda mumbled and leaned against the door frame and putting her finger to her chin to think.

"Don't hurt yourself," Jacques said.

The door opened.

"What now?" Jacques asked. Was Frollo collecting all of Paris?

"Sir, I've been thinking about—what's going on?" Phoebus asked from the doorway.

"Did you know Frollo has a barely dressed girl in his room?" Jacques asked. As stupid as the captain was, at least he tried to explain things.

"Yes, she's been there for a week and now I've got one of my own and I had to sleep at the brothel last night because of it. One of them gets a knife in her hand and the whole building won't let you go to sleep."

"Okay, kids," Jacques said exasperatedly. "Both of you sit down and let's have a very long talk."

…………..

Someone knocked on the hospice door.

"Yes?" Claude asked, opening it. He had borrowed Jacques's spare tunic and shirt, though that was where his luck on managing to dress himself stopped. Jacques was a few inches bigger than him in circumference, and was nowhere near his height, so he was barefoot in a tunic that barely came below his knees.

"Where's Jacques?" the man at the door asked. He was holding a bleeding gash on his arm.

"He's out for the day; I'm filling in," Claude said. "Look, just—"

The man ran away down the street.

"Third person today. Why do people keep coming here if that's all they're going to do?" Claude asked. He wanted to put a sign on the door that said 'The doctor is out' but Jacques had yelled at him not to. He couldn't wait for that man to bring him his clothes so he could leave.

Prince started to scream from where he was sitting on the floor.

Claude had ordered the soldiers to take the gypsy and the girl away and said that he'd hear about what had happened later. He gave his key to Jacques and told him to check up on Esmeralda and bring his clothes back later that night. He had gone to sleep holding Prince after tying a leash to the baby and setting blankets down on the floor nearby. It was a matter of when, not if, the child would wake up and fall out of the bed, but they tended to be quieter and postpone breaking things if curled up next to someone. Prince had been mostly content to shuffle himself around on the floor like a drunken and sometimes dyslexic caterpillar, crying rarely and most of it was because he'd tangled his leash on something.

Claude was well attuned to different kinds of baby screams. This was a scream for attention, the baby having gotten bored with everything breakable moved out of reach.

"You are way too spoiled," Claude said, picking the child up to silence it. In all honesty, he'd left Quasimodo to cry up in the bell tower and waited for the baby to tire out, at least mostly, before tending to him. Other people had problems with it, but Quasimodo grew up healthy in every aspect, if only much quieter than most people. Speaking of quiet, Quasimodo was taking his wound rather surprisingly. Claude checked up on the boy constantly, careful to keep the gypsy baby hidden from him, but Quasimodo just lay on the bed, half the time asleep and the rest of the time silent and thankful for Claude changing his bandages and brushing his hair from his eyes to prove he was still just outside the curtained darkness. Quasimodo would groan over the pain now and then, but that was all the noise he made. Claude found the boy convenient in the fact that he and Jacques's cat kept each other content and stationary.

The door opened. No wonder Paris was going to hell, people couldn't go two hours without nearly killing themselves.

"Sir?" Phoebus asked. He stopped, speechless. Claude Frollo, dressed in Jacques' usual doctorial outfit was not something he wanted to contemplate, let alone have to talk to.

"Are you hurt?" Claude asked.

"No…" Phoebus said, nearly whimpering. Jacques and Frollo trading jobs… if he ever went to hell, Beelzebub was going to have to come up with something really great to top this.

"Then go away. Better yet, hold this!" Claude said, shoving Prince at Phoebus, who had no choice but to hold the baby.

"Uh…" Phoebus managed, staring at the gypsy baby. His mind had already been racing, and now it was putting two and two together and getting seven.

"By the way, I'd keep it away from—"

"Ow!"

"…your face," Claude finished. He had gotten halfway across the floor to untie Prince's leash and already the leader of the King's Army was being bested by someone who needed help belching. Claude turned back and pried Prince's hands from Phoebus's beard.

"Sir," Phoebus said, wincing away tears from the lingering pain. "Might I recommend that next time you ask Gaetan about some ways to prevent this."

"What are you talking about?" Claude asked. It was Phoebus's beard, what did he have to care about it?

"Not that she isn't cute, sir."

"Phoebus, I don't care," Claude said. Did he hit his head? Did he have anything in his head to hit? "Not that I don't blame you, but it's a boy."

"I am so sorry, sir!" Phoebus exclaimed. "What did you name him?"

"His name is Prince and—Me?" Claude ripped Prince from Phoebus's hands and slammed a fist into Phoebus's face.

"Phoebus, do you like your job?" Claude asked angrily.

"Not really," Phoebus answered, his hands cradling his head. For the first few seconds, he was sure he'd lost his eye.

"Do you like your head?" Claude asked. He did not need any more people to take care of and Phoebus was too old to need it anyway.

"I liked it a lot better before you hit it!" Phoebus answered, taking away one hand, the other doing it's best to rub his wound. How come he kept forgetting not only about the lack of people skills, but also the really hard fingers?

"Then if you want to keep it where it is, stop thinking about me in my bedroom!" Claude yelled. "And if you put a cold compress on that, it won't swell."

"I'll remember that once I go very, very far away from you, sir," Phoebus said.

"Really, I'm not even married!"

Phoebus almost asked what that had anything to do with it, but decided not to. He had asked his mother once and got the same reaction Frollo had over his assuming Prince was his kid.

"Well, I thought this would explain why you've been trying to get Esmeralda to marry you," Phoebus said. "I just kind of assumed you got a tiny bit ahead of yourself and the marriage thing was going a bit slower than you intended."

"Phoebus, I hate children more than I hate gypsies!" Claude said.

Prince clapped at the amusing scene before him. Adults didn't play much, but when they did, they were great at it.

"If this kid weren't the only way to get my clothes back and have someone else watch Esmeralda for a day, I'd just set this whole place on fire with the kid inside and blame him. Now hold this try to think properly for once and if you're not capable, then just shut up and help me." Claude handed Prince back to Phoebus, who held the kid as amateurishly as his father had in the beginning and kept it a good distance from his person, afraid of another attack.

"Speaking of Esmeralda, I wanted to check up on what you had planned concerning… stuff…"

"Yes, that," Claude said, untying Prince's leash and gathering it up from it's snaking, curling, spiraling path around every piece of furniture Prince could reach before retying it. "I'm still thinking about it. Obviously I can't actually admit what they did if I want to keep Gaetan a boy and I'm not really interested in doing such things in the first place." In truth he was, but he wanted to in a 'No'-means-'Yes' way, not in a 'Get-off-me!-means-'I-want-to-cut-it-off-and-then-have-a-good-stab-at-your-throat-too!' way. "All I can come up with is that I say Gaetan was tortured, keep it vague, and probably just have her killed."

"That was what I was concerned about," Phoebus said. "Isn't there someway to deal with this with her surviving and me keeping my head from getting dented further?"

"What, you want her now?" Claude asked. "You can have her if you can think of something. Go right ahead. Be my guest."

"What, you're just going to end things like that?"

"Now you're an expert on lasting relationships?" Claude shot back. "You can't even remember where you left your clothes, let alone a girl's name! Your horse knows there's no picking up where we left off and pretending nothing happened after this! It's not like I can just marry her and—" Claude stopped, his mind and his words not only coming to a sudden halt, but stopping just after wandering off a cliff.

"…Sir…?" Phoebus asked. What just happened and did it mean he was going to die?

Phoebus started backing away slowly, and when Claude snapped out of his confused and frozen state and reach for him, he thought he was going to be attacked again and screamed.

"That's a brilliant idea, Phoebus," Claude said, gesturing as if he'd snatched the answer to every single on of life's problems out of the air. "Are you feeling alright?"

"It—Wait—I—Is someone going to die?" Phoebus asked.

"What?" Claude asked. "No. Probably not. No one important."

"Could you please explain, sir? I'm really starting to fear surprises at the moment."

"I marry her as some sort of act of goodwill or whatever," Claude started to explain.

Phoebus almost lost the man on Claude actually showing goodwill, but once he figured it was a lie, he caught up.

"Some sort of truce with her as a representative of her people," Claude went on. "That makes me look better than the gypsies and if Gatean actually can't get me any clues to their Court of Miracles and the gypsies who attacked us then I have a good incentive to get the one in jail to start talking. If all else fails I can force my wife to help. If it turns out anyone wasn't involved other than her, then I can surely find some reason to arrest them later. What a perfect plan, Phoebus."

"Sir, remember our agreement about how I'd stay out of you and Esmeralda so long as you kept from hurting her as much as you possibly could?"

"Yes, what about it?" Claude asked, not amused that he'd been distracted from trying to find any holes in his plan.

"Well, I'm sorry for anything I've said already, but I think marrying you is punishment enough for her and I'm leaving before things get worse for the poor woman!" Phoebus said hurriedly and shoved Prince back into Claude's hands and left.

"You had better be worth it," Claude scolded Prince.

Prince threw up.

"Jacques, I am going to own your soul," Claude muttered and set the baby on the floor to go find something to clean the child up with.

…………………….

Claude pushed moved the curtains out of his way to check on Quasimodo again. Prince was finally asleep, but had scared away Jacques' cat. Claude hoped it could feed itself and would come back on its own. Even doing someone else's job, he had too many pets to keep track of.

Quasimodo's bandages were doing their job and the bleeding was going down significantly. Claude turned to leave, brushing his fingers through his son's bright red hair, but as his hand left Quasimodo grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the cot.

"Master," Quasimodo whispered. "You can't marry a gypsy! Please, master, don't you remember what they did to Gaetan?"

"Of course I remember," Claude said, sitting down next to Quasimodo and petting the boy's head again. Well, he'd find out sooner or later and he did not need his son going on a murderous rampage trying to protect him when he saw Esmeralda on top of him. "But this is the best way, Quasimodo. The gypsies are linked as a group; they will not risk her life and I will use that to keep them under control. I will own her, Quasimodo. If I can't use her to force her friend to tell me where the Court of Miracles is to punish those responsible for harming Gaetan, then I will force her to tell me. She will be the key to answering for the crimes against your little friend, Quasimodo."

"But she's a gypsy, master!" Quasimodo pleaded, struggling against the pain to pull on his father's gown. "She's dangerous! You can't let her near you! You can't let her near Gaetan!"

"Quasimodo, you don't quite understand, do you?" Claude said, still petting his son's hair. "This marriage shall be a truce between me and them. I shall still have the power to send any who break the law to their deserved fate. If she tries anything, Gaetan takes over in my place and since Esmeralda represents all her people, anything she even tries to do to me will be seen as an act of war and whoever is in charge will have just cause to have every gypsy in the city executed on sight."

"But what about you, master?" Quasimodo asked, his grip loosening as he beginning to trust his father's words. "You cannot hurt her without repercussions. How will you learn of the Court of Miracles?"

"My boy, there are more ways to convince someone to do something for you than mere force," Claude explained, smiling. He was good at those, except the ones that included actually being nice to someone. However, he could make up for it by pretending. "And even if there weren't, I am sure I can think of something she would never wish to tell her people about."

"But will you be happy?" Quasimodo asked. He made it clear that this was his last question and that he'd release his grip if he had the right answer.

"I will find a way, Quasimodo," Claude said.

Quasimodo's hand fell away and he leaned his head against Claude's leg like an affectionate cat. "Please be happy, master."

"Oh, my boy, I already am. You have no idea what you've given me." Claude was beginning to regain control. He was going to chase those gypsies out of his head and they would regret ever thinking of hurting him at all, especially there. He was going to make them pay. There would be a scar, but his wound was healing and his armor was being repaired. While he was at it, he felt he'd best mend as many holes as he could. "You have given me back Gaetan. You freed her and kept her from being found out. She will surely be thankful when she is better. You have given me every gypsy in Paris and their hidden lair! In fact, I was thinking of rewarding you. You may leave the bell tower whenever you wish. You have proven yourself capable of surviving out in the cruel world. Gaetan will be there to watch you and you can aid her if the need arises."

"Thank you, master."

Quasimodo was silent after that and Claude stayed to continue pet his son's hair until the boy fell asleep. Of course, Quasimodo would be too afraid to ever leave again… at least for a long time. Perhaps he'd teach that silly puppeteer to change his taste in stories if they ever met.

That is, if the gypsy survived to tell another story. Of course, Claude couldn't kill him quite yet. The man did deserve thanks for signing that contract, especially with an actual name instead of garbled gibberish, thus making it unbreakable. Who knew dealing with children, people even worse than the English, could make his life turn out so perfectly?


	23. Who Wants to Live Like That?

"Finally!" Claude muttered as Jacques entered the hospice with a pile of clothes.

"Oh no you don't!" Jacques said, turning quickly to keep Claude from the clothes as the man reached for them. "I don't care if I'm doing you favors for the next two centuries; you are not getting anything until you explain your household! Are you planning to start a circus or something?"

"If I was, I'd have gotten more creatures who'd actually listen to me, now wouldn't I?" Claude shot back. "Now do you want the baby gone or not? Your cat brought in a dead rat and it took me half an hour to get it away from the child and by then he needed feeding. Do you have any idea the inconvenience I had to go through to get supplies to feed a baby with like this?"

"Here," Jacques said, turning to Claude and throwing the clothes on the floor. "You sound just like the child."

"If you want to hear that thing scream I can wake it up for you and leave it here," Claude shot back.

"Sometimes, Claude, you make me want to fancy women," Jacques said and sighed.

Claude gathered up his clothes and wandered into the back room to change.

Jacques followed, refusing to be kept in the dark about how insane Claude—or at last his life—was getting. "Look, a cook I can understand, even expect, but some warning about what they look like would be appreciated. I thought the apprentice was a bad idea, but you've actually been taking it pretty well and I hope it works out after this, but what's with the rest of them?"

Claude paused as he set Jacques' tunic on the back of his chair, then shrugged and grabbed his hose. If the man was enjoying the view, he was keeping it to himself, which was better than Phoebus could manage and the captain getting such ideas. As long as he didn't have to hear about whatever thoughts went on in Jacques' head, he could have as many as he wanted. "The goat belongs to Esmeralda and the cook likes using it to keep the streets around the house clean."

"Yes, and about Esmeralda…" Jacques prompted.

Claude hiked up his hose and sighed. "I guess I should be thankful that no one's dragged a barroom limerick about it to you yet." Claude grabbed his gown from the pile and continued to talk as he put it on. "She started saying some gibberish which turned out to mean she was interested in romance."

"What, with you?" Jacques asked. "Has she been inhaling tar?"

"Yes, I hope your pursuits stop being hopeless too," Claude said, smoothing his gown before grabbing his pauldrons and adjusting them over his head. "If it makes you feel better or at least gives you something to laugh at behind my back, I thought it was an opportunity to get some secrets out of her."

"And these secrets are why you have her stashed away in your bedroom and she's used up all your shampoo?" Jacques asked.

"She what?" Claude yelled angrily. He took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. Exactly who was going to be in charge when they were married? "Is there another sock?"

"Claude," Jacques grumbled loudly.

"I was attacked!" Claude exclaimed. "I needed a hostage and now my bedroom has become a lower level of hell! Didn't she tell you any of this?"

"Well, the most recent part of all this," Jacques said. "Look Claude, I like you…most of the time. You've got to be the one person I can hold an intelligent conversation with… though maybe not necessarily a pleasant one. I know we're not friends, but I respect you, even if you do look ridiculous on occasion, and I really mean this: you're a moron."

Claude said nothing, but was rather pleased with himself for having found his other sock.

"Claude…" Jacques started.

"What?" Claude asked. "There's nothing more to explain. Who else is at my house?"

"Well, there's Phoebus," Jacques said. "Can I have him if you don't want him?"

"I think you'll have a bit of a hard time getting him to follow you home, but you can have him when I'm done with him. I need him for a few more days." Claude had donned his socks and was now slipping his shoes on.

"Really—? No, sorry, that wasn't what I was talking about, I got distracted. Speaking of which…"

"Speaking of which, what?" Claude asked, putting his last shoe on. "Finish your sentence already."

"Claude, for an expert on taking care of babies, you're about as smart as one sometimes," Jacques said. "What are you going to do with the woman, execute her?"

"I'm going to marry her," Claude said. "Now, if you don't mind, I—what?"

Jaques had his face in his hand.

"What did I do?" Claude asked cluelessly.

"What do you mean you're going to marry her?" Jacques asked, taking his hand away and waving both of them in frustration.

"It's not like she has a choice," Claude said. "She dies or she marries me. Actually, that is a choice…"

"Claude this is not how you deal with being in love with someone!" Jacques yelled at the top of his lungs.

Prince woke up at the noise and started to scream, as did Appolonia, who had apparently made the mistake of sleeping on the baby.

"Jacques, I'm not getting married for love. I'm doing it so I can get my job done and go find people to kill."

"Wait, what?"

"I'd say it's a marriage of convenience, but a lot of it is going to be rather inconvenient. You don't get married out of love; you get married because you can't get someone to give you things any other way."

"Claude…" Jacques started. "Never mind. You know what you're getting into, don't you?"

"Unfortunately, I do." His words were heavy and final. Love had nothing to do with the marriage and never would. He'd been doomed from the start and he felt he'd spend his days living like Jacques, wanting something he could never have after doing the best he could.

Jacques knew all that now. He thought Claude had been as stupid as his captain over the woman, but was, in fact, as pathetic as himself and if he hadn't been fully aware of it, he was now. Jacques looked for something to say to help. Not only should he himself not have to be stuck in such a situation, but neither should anyone else, at least not anyone he liked. "Can I come?"

…………….

Jacques had locked the bedroom door, figuring that not only did Claude have more of a problem with Esmeralda than vice versa in the situation, but that if he didn't, the girl would get the idiotic idea of leaving and finding Claude at the hospice and not only would Jacques have to suffer through and after the imminent argument from both of them, but that he'd lose any chance he already had that the building would still be standing at the end of the day.

Esmeralda was surprised as to how late—or early—Claude was in returning to see her. She crawled out of the bed as the door was unlocked. She was dressed in nothing but her blouse and sash. She was used to banging on the door to get his attention and having him wait outside.

"I have to use the facilities," she said, yawning, then noticed his stern and yet happy expression. His fingers were steepled and his gaze was fixed on her eyes. This time, she was here to do something for him and she already didn't like where his thoughts were going, even before she heard him voice any whatsoever. "I definitely have to use the facilites," she said, cringing against the bedpost.

"In a moment," Claude said, locking the door behind him, never once turning from her. As he began to walk over to her, she contemplated escaping out the window and if it was worth it in the first place. Just as she decided against it, knowing that whatever he had planned, not only would it be worse if she was caught, but that she was sure she'd be forced to watch others suffer the same fate before it was her turn. He grabbed her wrist. She screamed in fear.

"I thought I'd bring you a little story for the night," he said in his famous sickly-sweet voice.

She had never heard him speak like this before and now she understood why the tales of it frightened every one of her people and the mention of it could silence hundreds. It wasn't just Clopin exaggerating for his stories, it was real, and Clopin couldn't even come close to making the voice as frightening as this. She whimpered.

"You gypsies like stories. Why, this one even has a little riddle. Won't that be fun?" he teased, mockingly holding her hand delicately, but with the very real threat of grabbing it and breaking her wrist in seconds hovering between his two fingers on her prickling flesh. "Now, you may not believe in God, but I do!" He pulled her towards him fiercely and she nearly fell on him. His smile grew as she caught herself to keep from touching him. "God has sent his demands on justice: 'if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise,' and I am forced to follow The Lord and His Law. Now, once upon a time, there lived a man and one day he found a little boy, who was not, in fact, a little boy but a little girl. You see, she could only help him if she were thought to be a boy. The man protected her and trained her and guarded her very special secret. But the little place the two lived in was cursed." He waved his hand in her face in emphasis. He didn't need to, for his words were all he needed to send her shivering. "It was full of demons, creatures that reveled in taking possessions and lives, heathens who celebrated around roaring fires at forcing innocent people to cower in fear of their hellish games. Now, the man had warned the boy who was not, in fact, a boy, to beware of these demons, but one day a she-devil took the form of the most beautiful shape the man had ever seen. The man suffered for the sins she incited in him. He punished himself for what she tried to inspire in him and prayed for help and forgiveness, but she had dug her claws deep into his mind and refused to let go. One day, the demoness brought her companions to attack the man and the boy. He managed to capture her, but the demons had taken the child. He promised them he would bring down God's Great Justice upon her for whatever tortures they enacted on his little companion. While in his possession, she pleaded with him, claiming to be an angel, for even Lucifer was once the most beautiful of God's Great Choir. But the demons found that the boy was in truth a girl and they did to her what the cruelest of men do to poor, defenseless women."

Esmeralda knew he was addressing her as a poor, defenseless woman. She tried to back away, but hit the bed again and his fingers pressed down on a very painful notch of her wrist.

"His obedient, loyal little boy was returned, but the demons held the very terrible threat of telling everyone that she was a girl. The man had to punish the demons, but first, he was faced with God's Holy Edict: 'if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.' It fell upon the demoness, now. She could face death by her own hellish fire, or she could show him that she truly was an angel as she said and join with him, vowing to serve and obey his every order as his bride and guardian." He dropped her wrist and leaned towards her, his hands now behind his back, where she trusted them even less.

"I really, really, really have to use the facilities!" she squeaked.

"Certainly." He took her hand and placed the key in her hand, curling her fingers over it. "I trust you," he said, his words dripping with poisoned honey. "you know exactly what will happen if you do not return."

Claude walked over to the window and wondered which choice he preferred her to choose.

He wouldn't need to look for the Court of Miracles if she chose death. He'd just have every gypsy killed along with her. They'd either be trapped in their refuge or they'd make a futile attempt to flee into a labyrinth with no exit and soldiers at every turn. He'd suffer in the wake of her death and he would probably go the way his mother had. To think, him going out like a dying candle over the very heathen who had nearly cost him his life, not to mention what her kind had done to Gaetan.

Then again, marrying her didn't do anything for his apprentice, or him. He was practically recruiting Esmeralda to make his life difficult every single day for as long as he lived. No matter what he wanted from her, he couldn't have it and he was pretty much punishing himself for any wrong thoughts he'd have over her and then some. But he was mixing Gaetan in all this as well. He'd promised to pull her out of a pit of vipers and then shoved a poison asp down her shirt. Maybe he'd find some way for all three of them to skirt around each other. It worked for two people… the problem was Gaetan did what he said without question; Esmeralda expected to get the same thing out of him. He was going to have a lot of sleepless nights trying to get her to understand who the law said was in charge if she agreed to marry him.

He sighed. Phoebus had things easier despite how much he complained. Jacques had things easier. Quasimodo had it better.

Claude wanted to break something, something that wasn't his.

Esmeralda opened the door. Why couldn't she have just run away? At least then he could be angry at her when he killed her.

"What will happen to my people if I agree to marry you?" she asked.

"You act as their representative," he said, continuing to stare out the window. "Think of it as a truce. I deal with those who are actually guilty and if your nice people exist, then I ignore them, so long as they remain that way. You prove you're not one of them and I have you and every single one of your people killed."

"How soon?" she asked.

"A little less than a week," he answered. He could not have Gaetan around while merely betrothed to Esmeralda. That was like asking Phoebus to smarten up and sitting around while waiting. "It must be official and I need Gaetan back to help me start to set things right."

Esmeralda was quiet for a few minutes. She seemed about as happy about this as he was. Well, at least he wouldn't be miserable alone. "Can I keep Djali inside?"

"Not in the bedroom," he said.

Esmeralda was silent and he preferred her that way. That is, until he found she'd been sneaking up on him to grab him around the waist. He jumped in surprise and she used it as an opportunity to turn him around and face her. "Do you love me?" she asked.

"That has nothing to do with this," he said flatly.

"Do you love me?" she repeated.

He sighed. He didn't need to shove a weapon in her hand for her to stab him in the back with. "Yes," he answered.

"Then I will marry you," she said, hugging him.

"You realize there are some requirements," he said, pushing her away. He wondered if constantly shoving her off constituted as beating her. Technically, it was legal to do so, but it might not look like he was holding up his end of the truce.

"I'm not really a—" she started. It wasn't really like virginity was something she could go back to the last place she'd seen it and go looking for it.

"Esmeralda, that's amazingly obvious," he said.

"So, exactly how are we going to fix it?"

"Just a few things you'll have to do. Confession, Communion, Confirmation… they baptize people older than me, don't worry."

"Right… those…" she said. Well, if he didn't ask, it wasn't her fault for not bringing it up. "What are those?"

"Will you take this seriously?" he yelled. He grabbed the rosary off he dresser and shoved it into her hands. "I cannot marry someone who is not a Catholic!"

"Well, at least you can fix that!" she yelled back. "I have to marry a gadjo! I lose everyone I'm saving by marrying you!

"I could be excommunicated giving you this chance!" he yelled.

Esmeralda sighed and crossed her arms. "And we're not even married yet," she mumbled. "You got maybe an instruction booklet on this? Maybe we can work something out from there."

Claude sighed. It was the best he was going to get, he better take it. "Let's start from the top, shall we?" he said, walking over to the bookshelf and pulling down the illustrated Bible. "But I want to lay down a few rules, first. One, I get my bed back."

Esmeralda looked over at the giant statue of velvet that she'd been sleeping in for the last week. She smiled. "Fine," she answered happily.

"I want to sleep in it," he said.

"Okay," she said.

"I actually mean sleep."

"Awww," she muttered. "Fine." He never said anything about the floor.

"Two, no children. Ever."

"Thank you!" she cried and leapt at him, embracing him tightly.

………………

"I need a word with you," Claude said, walking up to the archdeacon. He had waited out the morning mass and followed him until he was finally alone. Gypsies weren't the only ones skilled at ambushes.

"Is it 'farewell?'" the archdeacon asked.

"In private. It is about the situation with my apprentice. And that favor you owe me."

The archdeacon looked around. He saw no one, but led Frollo down one of the sides of the cathedral a few yards, just in case. "Before you start, I heard about you and the hospice and I was afraid to come over. You didn't kill a little baby while there, did you?"

"What? No, Jacques is still taking care of it." Technically, that wasn't a lie. Jacques was taking care of it by having him take care of it and similarly, he was taking care of it by having one of his tenants take care of it in exchange for not having to pay rent for the next two months.

"What happened?" the archdeacon asked, clutching the cross on the string around his neck and praying no one had died yet.

"My captain found her," Claude said. "But the gypsies found her first."

"Oh, good—her? Uh, oh." Leave it to Claude Frollo to turn good news into the next hundred years' war in two sentences.

"Things get worse from there," Claude said.

"Frollo, tell you me you didn't," the archdeacon nearly snapped the cross in half in his shaking hands.

"No. At the very least, I'd be admitting the truth about my apprentice and this whole situation gets even worse," he argued. "What is it with people anyway? Next you're going to think it's dangerous to tie a horse up next to me!"

"Please make this conversation improve in the next sentence," the archdeacon said.

"I have every right to tell my soldiers to exterminate any gypsy caught in Paris for the next year. Grant me a favor and I'll spare at least one."

"Fine, anything," the archdeacon said, and then wished God had stuck him with lightning before the words escaped his lips. "What is it?"

"I gave my apprentice one week to be alone to recover as best she can before I admit to having found her. I take her back Tuesday morning. I need to be married to Esmeralda by Monday night."

"Frollo, that plan is so stupid Phoebus might as well have thought it up."

"He did," Claude said, crossing his arms. Last night had been spent awake again and he wanted to get this over with to send Esmeralda to the church and spend the last moments of having a woman-free bed to take a nap. "Look, I either kill her or I marry her and you're not involved in the first. Besides, she already had her heart set on living. I need to shorten the time for the announcement of the banns and if its official, I spare her and any of gypsies who turn out innocent of all this if there are any."

"You promise?" the archdeacon asked, now clutching his cross with both hands.

"Only if it's official!" Claude exclaimed. "If it turns out it isn't I strike before the gypsies do and if it is it keeps them from trying anything like this again."

"Then yes, I'll marry you two," the archdeacon said.

"Good. I'll send her over to—you?"

"Too late, you agreed," the archdeacon said. "Besides, it this keeps you from killing someone, I am going to make sure this goes off without a hitch in order that I can hold you to your end of the bargain."

"Very well," Claude said. He was lucky he got the man to agree to this in the first place. Besides, he just won himself a chance to have someone else deal with the worst of Esmeralda, he shouldn't lose it now. "Then you can make sure she counts as a Catholic before then. And if you don't want to end up annulling this anytime soon, talk to her about appropriate behavior."

"Frollo…" the archdeacon scolded.

"She started it!" Frollo shot back as he left.


	24. Sweet Surrender

Phoebus had snuck Gaetan out after she fell asleep and left her in a hotel. He paid for the both of them, due hotels bunking random strangers together if there weren't already two people to a room. He slept in his own room in the barracks, he just wanted both of them to have some privacy and he didn't want to risk her being seen whenever nature called. It was also easier on him that he didn't have to see her change and it sounded a lot less suspicious to the girls at the brothel when he asked for a pair of bodies after he mentioned it was for someone else at a hotel.

The gypsies had disappeared from the streets again and Phoebus didn't know why and didn't care anymore. For murderers and worse, they sure were a jumpy bunch of people.

Gaetan barely spoke to him when he visited. What was even more unnerving was when she said she wanted to listen to him talk. He said everything he had to say was stupid, but she said that was why she wanted to hear him.

On Sunday, Phoebus noticed her trying to swallow as much wine as she could until the taste got to her, followed by trying to cleanse her mouth of it with bread or meat. Gaetan hadn't been able to stand the smell of alcohol since her first attempt at it, even though Frollo himself had only laid down rules of drinking 'proper' spirits.

"Are you feeling… worse than usual?" Phoebus asked. A reticent, angry, sullen, and emotionally traumatized female was hard enough to deal with. A drunken, reticent, angry, sullen, and emotionally traumatized female made him want to go to Frollo for tips and the thought of that made him want to drink too.

"Frollo… used to let me see… a friend this day every week," she said. "I hope he'll let me again after this." She had mentioned the fight and asked if anyone had died. She never said who she was concerned over, but she was happy that everyone was alive, though she hadn't expressed her opinions over 'well' not being in the statement.

"You're going back to his house tomorrow night," he said. "You sure about this? I mean, what if there was some way to just… go somewhere else or find something else to do… maybe there are female butchers." Selling ribbons, stealing junk, and fighting… not really many job opportunities there.

"He said I'm not in trouble," she said through a large chunk of bread. "He'll fix things."

"I thought you said I lived in a fantasy world," Phoebus said. "What makes you so sure?" 'Please, someone start making sense and go back to the way you were,' he mentally begged.

"You won't let him, remember?" she said.

"Right… that." Phoebus shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He hadn't really expected to be called on his conviction to die for what he thought was right so soon. But then, she'd nearly gotten killed both fighting and saving gypsies, Esmeralda was choosing a fate worse than death to marry Frollo, and some stranger—probably Gaetan's 'friend'—had nearly died fighting a gypsy over her. Heck, Frollo had his morals backwards and he was willing to die over them. Why did the membership fee have to be so high for the club and why did it accept people like them?

………………………

Before sending Esmeralda off to the Cathedral, Claude told her that so long as she remembered his rules, he'd play whatever game she wanted after marriage, but it was up to her to follow them or neither of them was going to play. Esmeralda said she could happily play with herself and left the house laughing at his confused expression and both of them thought the other was a complete twit.

Esmeralda returned in the evening, only for Claude to send her to the tailors afterward to have his mother's wedding dress adjusted. He didn't' even bother having her try it on and when she got to the shop, she realized not only why, but found which parent of his he'd inherited his height from—and which one he had not inherited his thin physique from. Later, Claude told her it was willed to him for when—which had been crossed out and replaced by the word 'if'—he got married by his mother and not been allowed to touch it until then. He shoved his mother's wedding ring into her hands and told her that if it didn't fit to find some string and took it back when she asked what he'd do for a ring. The ring was another item he could not own until marriage, but it never stated who had to wear it. His father had never worn a wedding ring and his jewelry made people pay attention and made very satisfying dents in other people's faces when he needed to resort to such strategies. He had no idea what to do for her, so just gave her money and told her to go away and deal with it herself.

Esmeralda spent her days trying to repair her toy, which seemed to always be either permanently broken, or to work a bit too well, depending on how she looked at it. She stayed close to him, watched and listened intently, sat next to him when he read his books, volunteered to do chores so long as he helped, and overall, did her best to pester and help, often not being able to tell the difference between the two.

Claude divided his time between teaching Esmeralda—writing, spelling, etiquette, more of The Bible and what it meant—and pretending she didn't exist. He never planned on being in love with her and had expected to ignore her the rest of his life before. For some reason, it wasn't as simple as he had planned and she wasn't making it easier. He became distant in every way possible; refusing to respond to her when she tried to start a conversation, trying to be in a different room than her and shoving her away when that didn't work, and forced himself to do nothing when either she or Djali—who had been allowed in the house now—sat on his lap.

Nights weren't much better. Claude refused to undress in front of her and got mad when she tried to undress in front of him. They compromised that she could wear as little as she wanted in the bed after marriage, so long as she wasn't nude before or in front of Gaetan, to whom, he reminded her, she would not be married to.

An hour after the two had gone to bed, Esmeralda caused another problem. Ever since Winter was over, he was used to sleeping alone or both he and Gaetan were pressed up against the edges of the bed and the other person might as well have been in another room. Esmeralda, however, was used to sleeping with Djali, her first week in the bed uncomfortable and she slept in and woke up upset and feeling unwell. She couldn't help grabbing the closest warm body; he may not be a goat, but he was just as good, even if he was bigger and not as fluffy.

"Esmeralda, stop that," Claude complained, sleepily trying to remember where he put his arm and wake it up to bat her away. "I explained this to you."

"But I'm cold," she complained, pulling herself closer. "and you're warm."

"Esmeralda, you are making it very difficult for me to sleep," he said, finding a spare pillow and lightly pounding on her with it. "The bed is for sleeping, remember?"

"Can you keep me warm when we're married?" she asked.

"Can I sleep through it?" he asked, dropping the pillow on her and rolling over.

"Sure."

"Fine," he said. This was nothing like sharing the bed with Gaetan. Esmeralda was crushing his arm and differently… shaped. It was distracting. "But if you don't stay on your side until then, I am tying you to the bedpost, canceling the marriage, and killing you when I wake up."

"What do I do for you to just tie me to the bedpost?"

"Stop talking or you don't get a horse."

………………

The next night Esmeralda curled up on her own side of the bed and went to sleep, but unconsciously rolled over and grabbed Claude's arm to hold close and woke up Claude who at first thought he was being attacked. Claude slowly settled back down in the bed and almost managed to fall asleep when she told him he was a 'good little goat,' at which point he went back to making a makeshift bed in the hallway. Djali, unconcerned about Claude's mood or health, bleated in his ear for an hour, the goat complained that it couldn't find Esmeralda and that he wasn't a good replacement, only to shove it's way under the covers and ball up in Claude's arms and hog the blankets. Esmeralda showed some pity through the nights afterwards and slept in the bundle of blankets with the goat for the next few nights, trading a toy for a pet, wondering how she was going to get Claude to settle down, let alone play with him again. As much as she missed the goat, she preferred a real bed and a human, even if Claude wouldn't wake her up by licking her face in the morning, no matter how cute that would be.

…………………

Mornings were the highlight of the chaos for the two. Claude let her sit very close to him and though short, she managed to have very pleasant conversations with him—or at least him pleasantly listening to what she said—he took her hands gently to teach her table manners and brushed her hair from her face, brushing his fingertips lightly against her skin. He even petted Djali while the goat sat on her lap, although Claude was just using it as a napkin.

Claude wished he could have some distraction to take him away from having to deal with Esmeralda for the entire day, even if it was just Phoebus coming over because he couldn't remember how to tie his shoe.

For the last two days, Esmeralda pretended to leave Claude alone to leaving her alone, spying on him through doorways or sneaking around behind him on the other side of the room. The easiest way to catch something that had run away was to sit quiet and wait for it to come back out, thinking you were gone.

During breakfast she told him that she not only didn't mind him punishing those responsible, but that she wanted him to; it was the innocent gypsies she had problems with him going after. He didn't respond, but she'd earned his trust enough for him to let her brush his hair the next day, the day just before the wedding. Her reward was short-lived, however. Later that day she saw him turning the new hairbrush in his hands, looking at it as if it had betrayed him and then angrily throw it in a drawer and slam it shut as if the thing had said something that offended him.

Despite it all, they both slept soundly the night before the wedding. Esmeralda thought he was restless, suffering morosely from withdrawal from his job and even being able to go riding anymore; marriage would solve all that and put a leash on him in the process. Claude thought Esmeralda was dangerous and cruel, out to pull him away from the eyes of God and determined to rub his nose in his decision to marry her and his mistake of having fallen in love with her in the meantime; marriage would solve that and when he could pursue the Court of Miracles, he'd finally be free.

………………………….

"This is pretty pathetic, Frollo," the archdeacon said, then covered his mouth to yawn. Frollo was adamant about a late-night wedding. For it to be legal, the announcement had to be all over the city, and the Minister wanted the smallest chance of being attacked again, especially since killing someone in a church was a very big grey area when it came to salvation.

Frollo had always wanted a very small wedding at a church and neither age nor Esmeralda had changed his opinion. He had spent the last fifty years devoted to his job and he could barely remember where he left his best clothes when he went to events that required them, all of which his mother had sold after his dancing fiasco. All he had were clothes as Minister of Justice, and the only changes he thought to make to his outfit was to wear the traditional blue wedding ribbons, wear a decorative (but still sharp) dagger that hung off his scrawny hips, wear his cloak, which he only wore for holidays or executions, and to leave his hat at home. Esmeralda looked better, but he hadn't put much effort into her clothes either. She wore his mother's old surcoat over a kirtle, but they were still too big even after the tailors had altered them and competed with Frollo's dagger as to which would land on the floor first. She had obviously bought the flowers hours ago, just as the shops were closing, and most of it was ivy, a leaf of which she'd shoved in her hair over her ear. Add to this the fact that it was almost midnight and that neither of the two were even trying to pretend they'd spent the last two weeks together even mildly contentedly, and the almost completely empty church, it was quite obvious this wedding was wasn't just thrown together badly, but haphazardly.

"For someone who wanted this to be official so badly, why did you bring only one witness?" the archdeacon asked, seeing Phoebus asleep while straddling the aisle side of a pew.

"I'm here," Jacques said, happily but sleepily, waving his hand form where he was lying down on the pew behind Phoebus, hidden behind the back of the pew in front of him.

"Jacques and Phoebus," the archdeacon mumbled. "This is just tacky, Frollo."

"I've seen worse," Jacques said.

"You're not helping!" the archdeacon scolded. "Why them? Why not some of your soldiers?"

"Because you don't like them and you said you didn't want weapons in the cathedral," Frollo said, stepping sideways away form Esmeralda.

"Then what's that?" the archdeacon asked, pointed at Phoebus's sword. Phoebus had the point on the floor and his hands on the pommel and leaned forward to rest his cheek on them as he slept.

"It's a prop," Claude said. "Look, if you're not going to do this, you could have told me a week ago."

"But you're armed," the archdeacon said.

"Well, so is she," Claude said. He had forgotten about her dagger until a few minutes ago. He was glad he hadn't thought of it. "I think… I don't want to check."

"Please don't check," the archdeacon muttered into his hand.

At this point Phoebus woke up and let out a huge yawn that echoed through the halls and took its sweet time to die down.

Jacques struck him in the back with his foot.

"Is it over?" Phoebus asked.

"We haven't started yet," Jacques said.

"Oh," Phoebus said, and yawned again, this time quietly, but still rudely. "Damn."

"This is the most unconventional wedding of convention I've ever seen," the archdeacon grumbled.

"Stand over there!" Claude shouted as Esmeralda tried to press closer to him. He shoved her a foot away and crossed his arms. "And stay there."

"You're all a bunch of children," the archdeacon said and sighed with his hand on his forehead.

"We've done that before," Jacques said.

"Jacques, not now," the archdeacon said, taking his hand away. "I can't do this."

"Fine," Claude said. "Phoebus, hand me that sword, I don't want to ruin the dress."

"You said it was a prop, Frollo," the archdeacon said.

"It's a sharp prop," Claude answered before turning to his surprised captain.

"Fine. Everyone take your places and I'll marry you two. I'm not going to pass up the chance to keep you from killing someone… again—ow!" The archdeacon bent down and picked up a struggling goat. "What's this doing here again?" he asked Frollo.

"It's hers, not mine," Claude said, his arms still crossed. He nodded in Esmeralda's direction.

"That's just Djali," Esmeralda said, as if naming it made the goat's attempt to eat the archdeacon's shoe and slurping on his toes while still in it made it all better. "Dajli, come here and sit still, okay?"

"Okay, I'll give you both the short version to make you both leave," the archdeacon said, setting the goat down. "Dearly Beloved: we are gathered here in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony, the sacred bond and covenant established by The Lord himself in the days of Creation between husband and wife in heart, body, and mind for their mutual joy; the two will help and comfort one another in prosperity and adversity, and when it is God's will—"

"Please skip that part," Claude whispered.

"I see you actually put some good planning into this," the archdeacon whispered back. "and to be protected by Him to… keep the couple and save them from… any others entering into their house or unity uninvited, and nurture each other in the knowledge and love of the lord." The archdeacon paused to whisper to Frollo again. "Thanks the Heavens and Everything In It."

"It was part of the contract," Claude whispered.

"Then I'm actually happy to marry you," the archdeacon whispered. "But I'm going to hold you to that as well."

"Just get on with it," Claude complained.

"We bring together this day Claude Frollo and Esmeralda… what's her last name?" the archdeacon asked.

Claude shrugged.

Esmeralda shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

The archdeacon shrugged and continued. "If any present here can show just reason why they may not be united in marriage lawfully and in accordance with God's Word, now confess it." The archdeacon both prayed for and dreaded this moment.

Jacques kicked Phoebus from behind.

"What, I wasn't going to say anything," Phoebus complained.

"I'm making sure," Jacques said.

"Yes, thank you for taking care of that," the archdeacon said.

Djali wandered out from the pews and bleated while trying to climb up Esmeralda's legs.

"What's his complaint?" the archdeacon asked. Great, the one objection and it was in ovine language.

"He just wants out," Esmeralda said.

"Good, now if there are none, then please continue. Say the vows, please."

"Esmeralda, will you please accept me as your husband, to recognize this pact and live together in marriage? Will you love, comfort, honor, and keep me, both in sickness and in health, forsake all others and stay faithful to me so long as we both shall live?"

"Sure," Esmeralda said proudly.

"Miss, you have to say 'yes' or 'I will' or something to that extent," the archdeacon whispered.

"Then yes," Esmeralda exclaimed. "Uh… what was all that again?" she asked.

"By the power vested in me, we're going to skip that part."

"Yes, I do," Claude said hurriedly. He wondered how much longer this would take. His part had been easy, the only problem on his end was explaining why a contract needed to be signed and teaching Esmeralda how to write. He was feeling better about letting her exclude her last name after the trouble it took to get him to spell her first. If he ever married again, he was going to find a girl with a very short name.

"And do the witnesses of this blessed arrangement agree to, in all your power, uphold these two in their promises to each other?" the archdeacon asked.

"Yup, sure thing," Jacques said, nudging Phoebus awake. "What? It's fine for me to say it."

"Yes, it is," the archdeacon admitted.

"Very definitely," Phoebus mumbled. Because if the two didn't keep to this agreement, he was going to beat them both over the head until they were unconscious and throw them off the top of Notre Dame.

"Then upon the kiss, which seals the agreement, I declare you two husband and wife."

Esmeralda tugged on Claude's sleeve to pull him closer and tripped on her train in the process. Claude shoved her away and she nearly dropped her bouquet as she tried to steady herself.

Tired from the couple, the witnesses, and the time, the archdeacon leaned over and shoved both of them, causing them to hit each other's head. "Close enough. You're now officially married. Please go somewhere else and not kill each other." The archdeacon was sure they'd both be back in two days demanding an annulment.

Claude took Esmeralda's wrist and led her to the doors of the cathedral. Djali hurried behind and zipped out of the doors one they were opened. Esmeralda pulled Claude to a stop and waved the bouquet slightly, reminding him she still had it. "Right, that," he said. "Go ahead, it's not like it's going to work." Esmeralda threw the bouquet as far as she could and Claude pulled her out the doors before she saw where it landed.

The flowers bounced off Phoebus's head and off Jacques' hand as he tried to catch it. Phoebus was woken up by Jacques tapping his face with the flowers and startled, seeing Jacques handing the bouquet to him.

"Your horse might like these," Jacques said.

"Right, thanks," Phobeus mumbled. The problem with Jacques was it was hard to tell when he was flirting and when he was just being friendly—or unfriendly—and Phoebus may not have been smart enough to tell the difference, but he was smart enough to tell he was being confusing on purpose.

"I know this keeps him from killing a lot of people, but I feel kinda sad about the wedding," Phoebus said, standing up and stretching. He put his sword back in its sheath.

"Yeah," Jacques said, sitting up. He wondered if he should go to the hospice or sleep here. His mind mentally shrugged and told him to keep an eye on Phoebus's rear. "Poor guy."

"Him?" Phoebus asked. He had to start getting more sleep. Everyone was talking crazier than usual when he didn't.

"You'll understand when you're older," Jacques said.


	25. Candle on the water

Claude kicked the door open with his foot as he carried Esmeralda into the hallway. He wasn't even in the slightest mood to be romantic, but Esmeralda had even worse trouble walking in the giant surcoat than in her red dress and darkness and drowsiness were making her worse. He wondered why he even had the door. The goat, which he waited in the doorway for to charge past in order to keep from tripping on, always wanted to go back and forth through it, it didn't deter Phoebus in the slightest, and now he thought it was inconvenient.

'Well,' he figured, 'I'm already this far, and setting her down now is just going to start her up again.' He carried her into the bedroom and set her carefully on the bed, almost falling on her.

She smiled up at him and brushed a hand over his hair.

He took her hand in his and pulled it away. "I have to go retrieve Gaetan. I will return shortly. Get the goat off the dresser before it breaks something."

He picked himself up and left.

Esmeralda leaned back on the bed. A pillow fell on her face as she sank into the mattress. "You could at least pretend to be upset."

………….

Phoebus had left to wake Gaetan up for Frollo to bring her back to his house, but she was already dressed when he arrived.

He had intended to wait with her outside the hotel with her, but he fell asleep again. She nudged him with a very sharp elbow as she spied Frollo approaching. Phoebus wondered why she bothered, for Frollo just waved him away and gave him an order to get some sleep. For the first time, Phoebus didn't care as Frollo put his arm on Gaetan's back and led her away. She came to him to believe in fantasies and she was going back to Frollo to be in the real world. If he was going to feed her lies, at least she'd enjoy them; she deserved that much after all that had happened.

If Frollo told Gaetan any lies, it wasn't his intention. Not yet, at least. Not about Esmeralda, for the woman would immediately expose any falsities and he'd not only lose his chance at the Court of Miracles, but his only chance to regain his life as his own.

She pressed up close to him, afraid that if she lost the touch of his gown he'd be too far away to save her again and the very shadows would attack and drag her away, this time for good.

"Gaetan, do you remember the woman I was with, Esmeralda?" he asked.

She pressed up closer, seeking protection from the mention of a gypsy. She wished she had her weapons with her.

"At first I vowed to do to her whatever they did to you and I was prepared to kill her immediately at the news of your death. But I could not do to her what they did to you. I gave her a choice: she and every gypsy I find pays for what they have done, or she becomes mine and lives under my control and I spare whoever you tell me is guiltless of what was done to you, if there exists any but her," he said. "She is an innocent gypsy, something I never thought even God Himself could create. She chose to live. Do you understand?"

"How can you be certain?" she asked. Just when she believed him about gypsies, he changed his mind. That was how Phoebus thought, and Phoebus didn't believe the world worked the way it did. She wanted to go somewhere safe, somewhere gypsies would be chased away with blades and torches.

What could he say that could convince her? That she never killed him while he played servant to her? That she cried at Gaetan's abduction or promised him she'd be good or maybe that she had yet to do anything to justify arrest? Technically, she should be arrested, for her distracting him was all the evidence he needed to have her hanging by the neck on a rope in the square. "Because even though you are hers to command, both she and every one of her people die if she even touches either of us wrong and she will watch every single one of them meet their fate at the hands of the executioner before it is her turn to join them. I have found a way that she will meet a fate worse that what you have suffered if she goes against me. I know I cannot change what they did to you and I doubt you believe I can even understand, but I will not let her distract me from your safety again. Remember what you hold over her that she can never take away with any lies or threats: it all depends on you to tell me if any of her friends are innocent along with her; it is your word only, and I trust that whatever you say will bring about justice."

"I don't like her, master."

"You don't have to," he said, pulling her closer. "I do not like her. But I own her. That is what is important." Yes, that was what was important. That was all he was meant to care about. He had no idea how to drive his childish longing away, for it had no place there. He was turning into Phoebus. 'Dear Lord,' he thought. 'what Hell would that man give him if he knew?'

……………………

Esmeralda did not go to bed. She was hopeful that she could use Gaetan to convince Frollo into being a fun little toy again. If the kid was around to do things for her, she should put it to good use, even if she couldn't order her to make Frollo fun to play with the way she liked outright. She had obediently moved Djali out of the bedroom and waited for him in the hall.

To her it had been a long time since he had left and she wondered about it. She'd never been lonely with Djali around before. Still, true to his word, he returned very soon with Gaetan, who timidly pressed close to him.

"Hi there," Esmeralda said, keeping her distance, but bending down to be closer to Gaetan's height. "I'm Esmeralda."

"I know you're name," Gaetan spat.

Esmeralda looked at Frollo for help, but he seemed to be oblivious to everything and paid attention only to taking off his cloak and decorative dagger. "This is Djali, you want to pet him?" Esmeralda asked, picking up the goat, which had fallen asleep in the corner and was now struggling out of confusion.

"That's a doe," Gaetan said flatly, pointing at the goat's hind legs.

Djali looked embarrassed.

Esmeralda forced herself to smile. "I got him when he was a kid. I called him a him and I was too used to it when he grew up to call him anything else."

Gaetan stayed where she was by the door.

"I said pet the goat," Esmeralda said angrily.

"Do what she says," Claude muttered, intentionally taking his time to undo the buckle on the dagger holding the belt.

Esmeralda shooed Djali in Gaetan's direction and Gaetan bent down to pet the goat, who looked back and wondered why he hadn't been allowed to eat the Ivy off Esmeralda's hair yet.

Gaetan squatted on the floor, ready to leap up at any moment and stroked the goat. Neither of them felt any difference between Gaetan's hands going over the goat's ear or her horns. Djali settled down on the floor, wondering if Gaetan was going to feed her as well while Gaetan kept her gaze fixed on Esmeralda, who walked over to her.

"He…she really likes it when you scratch him right—" Esmeralda started, uncomfortable addressing her female goat in the female pronoun; it just didn't fit somehow. Esmeralda took Gaetan's hand, but before she could put it on the goat's neck, the girl shrieked and shot backwards.

"What happened?" Claude asked immediately.

Esmeralda froze and Djali jumped into her lap for protection.

Gaetan fell back and held onto her hand as if she had been badly burned. Her lower lip trembled and as much as she had fought back the urge to cry all this time, she couldn't stop herself now. Slowly she crumbled into sobs and fell helpless on the floor. She thought she'd seen the last of gypsies. She thought she'd run away to freedom, but gypsies had found their way here of all places. They had taken everything from her. Esmeralda wouldn't suffer worse than her, she'd just suffer the same thing. In fact, Esmeralda hadn't suffered what she had. Esmeralda would win. The gypsies would win no matter what.

Someone pulled her to her feet and she almost screamed at the woman to release her, but it was not Esmeralda but Frollo who held her. "I'm sorry," she said. The words were barely a whisper as they were choked past tears. Suddenly she was too afraid to cry, and too angry. She wasn't supposed to have her problems tangled up his. She had her own time to have her own life and now wasn't it. She'd never gone against that rule before, but she was sure this transgression was completely uncalled for and would be seen as wholly ungrateful after everything he'd done and risked for her. She was sure she would be punished, and in front of a gypsy no less, and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Did she hurt you?" he asked, turning to mockingly scold Esmeralda. At the very least, he could have an excuse to feel angry at her.

"No, master," Gaetan squeaked. "I… she's a gypsy. I'm sorry, I won't—"

"That is perfectly understandable," he said, leading her to the chair. "After what has happened, even she must frighten you." He put one hand under her chin and brushed her hair from her eyes with the other. "But she is not the one who hurt you. She is not responsible; it was all an accident for her as well. The ones who hurt you are far away in their Court of Miracles and I do not know where that is. If I only knew where it was, I would already be there to find out who has dared do such a thing to you." He sat down on the chair and silenced Gaetan with his finger as she tried to say something further. He pulled her onto his lap and was thankful she barely weighed anything. "Don't," he said, rubbing her back slowly as she cried against his chest. "Don't say anything. Tell me later."

It was an age old technique, one he'd used several times on Quasimodo when the boy was much younger. Out of the corner of his eye, he realized he'd inadvertently found a way to use it on two people. Esmeralda was standing forlornly to the side, ashamed at scaring the kid and jealous of the attention at the same time.

He was finally going to have his Court of Miracles.

………………

Gaetan fell asleep almost immediately. Why couldn't he just have this child to take care of? She took orders, she made herself part of the furniture, and she was smart while easily manipulatable.

Claude put her on her bed, almost dumping her there. As much as he preferred her over Phoebus or Esmeralda, or even the goat, she was still an apprentice. Besides, she was asleep. If she really cared, she could wake up and tuck herself in.

Esmeralda had followed him into the bedroom. "What now?" she asked.

"Now I'm going to sleep," he said. "I have work tomorrow. You are going to do more or less whatever you want." She could set the house on fire if she wanted. It would be a bad move and would result in other people being set on fire, but if he could help it, Phoebus could deal with it instead.

He pulled his clothes off and tossed them to the floor, kicking them in a corner. There were two women around now, one of them could pick them up. He threw on his nightshirt and knelt down and prayed, not just out of protocol, but in thanks that there would be no more unpleasant surprises.

Either God had gone to sleep before him and wasn't listening, or thought he was the most amusing thing since inventing different types of annoying insects, because he was immediately grabbed by his sleeve and awkwardly pulled halfway onto the bed through the closed curtains.

"Esmeralda, I know it's traditional, but can this wait a few hours?" he asked. "You…certainly don't seem to like the concept of clothes, do you?" As much as the idea of consummating his wedding night was looking more and more tempting, so was his pillow, and he knew what to do with that. It also hadn't asked for a million things for the last two weeks.

He pulled himself onto the bed fully, only for her to yank him closer and set him on her lap. "Esmeralda, what do you want?" He was very sure that this wasn't how things started.

"Shh," she whispered, and hugged him. "Don't talk."

'Wonderful,' he thought. 'I've married a monkey.' Gaetan had truly suffered something. She was a grown up, even if she hadn't mastered the 'up' part very well. Why, then, did he feel like he was being treated like a baby? Gaetan was going to get on a horse and stab people but he was sure that wasn't what Esmeralda wanted out of all of this. What did she expect him to do, suck his thumb?

"Esmeralda, I'm tired and this is embarrassing." If Phoebus went through this, then he not only earned the right to drink trash, but he could drink tar for all Frollo cared. That man could not be going through anything close to this.

"You're scared, though," she said.

"I am not scared," he said.

"You're scared of God," she said.

"Yes, but I'm supposed to be scared of God," he said. Didn't he go over this? There was a giant book about all this and he'd read the entire thing to her and very carefully went over the meaning of all the pieces. "Everyone is supposed to be scared of God. The last person who wasn't was nailed to two pieces of wood by other people who weren't afraid of God."

"You're not comfortable," she said.

"Esmeralda, I was nearly killed, and I have spent the last two weeks taking care of people ranging from two men who are supposed to be in charge of the safety of all the people in Paris physically and spiritually despite not being able to count to three on the first try, the loudest and wettest baby I have ever known, and someone who holds a spoon and a pen the same way and has broken one of each, I am taking care of a violated woman barely a decade old, I have to arrest and silence over a thousand people responsible and I have just married the one, single person who is both innocent of all of this and yet was the very person to make it all happen. Why, Esmeralda, do you think I am uncomfortable at the moment?"

"You're not happy," Esmeralda continued, determined to get her wording right.

'Wonderful,' he thought. 'I've married a monkey with the speech skills of Phoebus.'

She figured out to cut him off before he could explain, this time. "We're supposed to both make each other happy," she said. "If you make me happy, I promise to make you happy."

By her words, he already knew what would make her happy, but she didn't think it was what he wanted from her… or at least it wasn't on the top of his list of priorities long-term.

"And what if I said it would make me happy if you did the laundry and left me alone?" he asked.

"I can leave you alone the rest of the time," she said. "And you're going to get me a horse."

"You have to learn to ride it first."

"That's fine," she said, kissing his cheek and smiling as he tried too late to pull away. She had her toy back. That was all she wanted… wasn't it? 'Close enough,' she figured. "I heard it's just like—"

"Esmeralda, it had better not be!" Claude said. "Now let go of me and put some clothes on if you're cold."

"But I don't mind and God doesn't anymore now that we're married." She was partially true. The Bible did say there was nothing wrong with coveting your own wife, but it also said any sort of lust was a great sin. Apparently this was one of those pick-and-choose situations, like women in pants.

First it says a women shouldn't do anything men did and then Deborah is a judge and rides out with a king into battle, Yael splatters a man's brains everywhere, and Esther starts telling a man what to think. If women weren't supposed to be dangerous, why were men giving them sharp objects like knives and needles or putting them in kitchens full of blunt objects like brooms and pans around fire? Handing one a dagger was hardly different. Besides, God had made her good at it, so who was he to argue?

"I mind," he said.

"You'll get used to it," Esmeralda said, kissing him again and pulling the covers over herself as she moved away from him. "Someday."

………………..

Claude woke up later than usual, but paid little attention to it. The captain could take over babysitting the city for a few hours. Maybe he'd learn how to tie his shoe along with the rest of children in Paris. Claude was determined to sleep through shouting, bleating, and other noises, and didn't care who he was shoving out of his way as he prepared for the day or what they were carrying or even what they were doing with it. However, after finding Gaetan trying to fend Esmeralda off with the rosary while the older woman insulted her in Spanish, Frollo felt he had to get involved before something of his was damaged in the squabble.

He took both of them by the wrists and dragged them out to the hall.

"This is my house and I am unpleasant and armed and I liked being that way a lot more than either of you," he said. "Now you are answerable to me," he yelled, pointing to Esmeralda. "and you are answerable to her!" he yelled, pointing to Gaetan. "I never told either of you to like each other, and I honestly don't care if you ever do. Regardless, I want both—" He stopped, picked up Djali from out of the chair and pushed the confused goat into Esmeralda's arms. "I want all three of you to act civilly or someone is going to jail. I am going out and I expect the chores done when I get back. This means I want no weapons used in the house without just cause," he said the Gaetan. "no teaching anyone Spanish," he said to Esmeralda. "and no pets on the furniture," he said to Djali, who stuck her tongue out at him. "I will return for Gaetan." He still had to keep Gaetan on his side, though, and still have her act obediently. He addressed Esmeralda before he left. "I will return as soon as I can for Gaetan. I must go and deal with a few messes I still have to clean up thanks to you. You are not to touch her while I am out. Keep both of those in mind while I am gone." If he was going to have to handle children, he was going to pit them against each other to get what he wanted out of them.

…………………

Esmeralda had been the one doing all the shouting, and Djali had been responsible for the loud bleating and knocking most of the dishes from the table in trying to back her up in the one-sided argument of trying to yell at Gaetan to start getting along with her. In retrospect, it was probably not the best strategy to win the girl over.

Gaetan had started on cleaning up the table, a chore she'd been chased away from by the goat and didn't want to tend to with the gypsy so close. As Esmeralda sat in the chair, Gaetan did her best to keep out of arms' reach of her while she wiped up spilled food from the table and the floor and picked up dishes and utensils.

"Fine," Esmeralda scolded. "I can't figure out what to do, you tell me."

"That's your job," Gaetan said. "You tell me what to do and I do it until he comes back, then I listen to both of you."

Esmeralda was tempted right then and there to order Gaetan to be her friend, but decided against it. "Just don't call me 'mother,'" Esmeralda said.

"You're not my mother; you're my mistress," Gaetan said.

"Don't call me that, either. I don't even want Claude calling me that," Esmeralda said. "If I can tell you what to do, then I want you to stop looking at me like that!"

Gaetan turned her face from Esmeralda's view.

Esmeralda was sure the kid still had a disgusted scowl on her face. Had she always been so bad at wording things? No wonder Claude was having a hard time. "Claude said your mother was widowed when your father died in the war and then he took you in. Is that true? I mean, he also said you were a boy, so if that's not true, then, well, what else isn't?"

"My parents weren't married," Gaetan said. She took the pile of dishes and left out the door with them to give them to the cook. Technically she didn't lie. Frollo had taken her in, but as an apprentice, which was different from a daughter or son. He never bought her from her mother and her mother didn't even know where she was, but Esmeralda hadn't mentioned any of that. For all she and her mother knew, her father was dead and if he ever did show up, her mother would fix that immediately and would be proud of it. Besides, who was Esmeralda to judge any of her life or decisions, even if she was in charge?

Gaetan returned and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door on Esmeralda as she held her goat up to be petted again.

Esmeralda set Djali on the floor and went into the bedroom. Claude could ignore her, but Claude was going to give her something very, very enjoyable in the time he was going to spend with her and Gaetan not only didn't have such an agreement, but wasn't going to. Ever. Gaetan was not allowed to ignore her.

Gaetan soon began folding up the laundry she had abandoned in her attempt to make Esmeralda back off by using the rosary.

Esmeralda quietly tied up the curtains on the bed as she watched Gaetan work. Esmeralda had always lived alone and save for cooking, took care of herself. She was good at doing laundry, but she had never learned how to fold anything and settled for throwing her few clothes in a pile and telling Djali not to eat them—that lesson had taken a few tries. "Teach me how to do that," she said.

Gaetan paused and looked up at Esmeralda, who put her hands on her hips and glared. She was no Frollo, but she was married to him and that was apparently good enough for his apprentice, so she was going to use that to her advantage.

Silently, Gaetan handed Esmeralda one of Frollo's gowns and held up the one she was folding and slowly demonstrated for Esmeralda to follow, adjusting her mistress's mistakes without saying a word.

"Will my dresses go in the same drawers as his?" Esmeralda asked, setting the gown neatly in the drawer Gaetan used.

Gaetan shrugged.

Esmeralda looked around the room. The kid's past wasn't much of a conversation starter, and neither were her chores. Djali might be able to win her over, but not until Gaetan calmed down. "Are any of those books storybooks?" Esmeralda asked. She really didn't see why books wouldn't be storybooks, and refused to believe that there were so many non-stories that were made into books.

Gaetan looked over at the bookshelf. All the books were about law and scripture or history or fighitng. Some were about old cases, nearly all of them ending with someone executed. "There's The Bible," she said.

"I don't like those stories, the plot needs help in a lot of them," Esmeralda said. Claude had told her several times that The Bible was not about entertainment and after Genesis she agreed with him. It was about being bored and punished. No wonder he was so unhappy, God told him he couldn't enjoy anything. Smiling too much was probably against The Bible.

'There should be storybooks,' Esmeralda decided. If she ever learned to read, she was going to make Claude sit down and she was going to read him some real stories. They may not ask you to eat crackers Djali would spit out or drink wine that really did taste like someone died, but he was going to listen and she was going to have some decent stories.

She couldn't very well send Gaetan out alone to get her a storybook, and even if dragging the kid outside to go shopping with her didn't send the kid running to the kitchen to grab a knife, Claude expected to find her at the house when he returned and Esmeralda had no idea when that was. She couldn't very well go out on her own, now could she…? As a matter of fact, yes she could. She couldn't go anywhere before, even when she wasn't locked up, but she was married now. There was no promise that she'd return after being out for more than a few minutes, but now there was. "I'm going out. If he returns before I do, tell him I promise to be back before dinner."

Esmeralda threw her shoes on, which she hadn't used much in the house and so still wasn't used to and grabbed some money when Gaetan wasn't looking.

Claude hadn't hid his money since the first week Gaetan had worked under him. When she was official, she wasn't just trustworthy as an apprentice and could be sent on errands with it, but she'd lose everything if she stole from him and he did n't think she was that stupid. Esmeralda had been locked away and stealing from him would be a good reason to kill her where she stood, not to mention he hadn't thought of it. She also preferred when he did the shopping for her, even when he brought back surprises. Claudes' money stayed where it was as disasters came and went and it was one of the least of his problems.

Claude had packed the dress she wore at the wedding away and hadn't bought her anything new. She had talked to the archdeacon though, and he had mentioned that it was traditional for women to cover their hair, especially after marriage. She took off her sash and tied her hair up under it as best she could. And to think this whole catholic thing seemed so backwards and silly; at least they had a few practices that weren't barbaric.

"Come on Djali," she said, walking into the hall. That kid was going to get along or else.


	26. Trust in Me

Claude had needed to replenish many supplies Esmeralda had used up in her stay and had ordered more clothes for her from the tailors. This 'fun' she wanted had better either be very good or very fast, considering how few nerves he had left for her to get on.

He also had to help Quasimodo sneak back into the church. The fact that there were still soldiers stationed everywhere was a good thing. He could either tell them to patrol somewhere else or just not be caught with Quasimodo. In good health, stealth came to the hunchback the way swimming came to a fish. Now, however, Quasimodo had lost most of that skill.

As he helped the boy up the stairs, Quasimodo asked what exactly happened to Gaetan.

"Oh, Dear Lord," Claude muttered. He hadn't taught the boy much of anything, save for looking at certain parts of women too long was wrong. Exactly what was he going to say? He barely knew about any of this himself. "Do me a favor," he said. He hoped this favor would go a lot better than all the previous ones. "Ask the archdeacon and don't tell him I told you to. I'll send Gaetan over as soon as she's ready. She has been feeling better and I assume she would be delighted to see you again. I'll do my best to encourage her." Hopefully she could use Quasimodo to get a lot of things out of her system and this way not only would Claude not have to deal with it, but it would stay out of his house.

After stopping by the barracks, Claude returned home, relieved to finally take back his life and annoyed that he could not take back his own house. He found Gaetan sitting on the floor, reading a book of fairytales to Esmeralda who sat in the chair and listened intently as she petted her goat. He pulled the book from Gaetan's hands, slammed it shut, and dropped it on the floor.

Gaetan stood up and he handed her her sword and dagger and put his hand on her back as he led her out the door, glancing back at Esmeralda and smiling at her disappointed expression.

…………

Claude's carriage was used for events, rather than general work days, but he was allowed to use it whenever he wanted, and he had plans for both travel and privacy today, and he still had no horse and hated to use the ones soldiers used in the barracks. He hoped to solve all of that and hopefully have an opportunity to get something done soon as well. There was only one seat in the carriage, but both he and Gaetan were skinny and there was plenty of room for both of them, as well as putting a bit of space between them.

For a long time he just watched Gaetan, looking for a sign of restlessness or for her to look out the covered window or even break down into tears again. He needed some hint or something to use to push her to tell him but nothing happened. She just sat with her hands on her lap and her eyes pointed at the swinging curtain.

They were journeying to the other side of the city so there was a lot of time, but halfway through their journey, Claude was concerned that he was making no real progress, despite his best machinations.

"We should get you a haircut," he commented, lifting her bangs from her eyes.

Gaetan didn't move and he dropped the offending locks.

"You trust me, don't you?" Perhaps it had been a bad idea leaving her alone with Esmeralda.

She turned to him and gave him an expression as if he had asked what color the sky unusually was. "Oh course, master," she said.

"I am sorry for having to leave you with a gypsy, even one under my own command," he said. "Did she do anything? Did she try to dissuade you from telling me of the Court of Miracles?"

"She did nothing of the sort," she said. "But I do not know where the Court of Miracles is!" she cried out, growing afraid. "Please, I don't. I swear it!"

"You will not be punished for your ignorance, do not be afraid," he said. "I only want to know what you saw, perhaps if you recognize anyone from there. I will know how to find it from what you tell me and I will know how to find those who must be brought to justice as well. Trust me, you know more than you think. But you must tell me soon, your own welfare rides on your knowledge. I will do my best to make you feel safe enough to tell me, I promise. Do not be afraid of anything the gypsies did to keep secrets, even Esmeralda."

"She didn't do anything," Gaetan mumbled. "But I still don't like her." For some reason she felt worse the idea of him and Esmeralda than her mother and any of the mystery men who paid her, including her father or even the gypsy.

"You do not have to like her," he said, putting his arm around her and moving her closer. Her loyalty belonged to him and no one else, not even herself. "You never have to like her."

"But you said she was an innocent gypsy," she said.

"There are many innocent people, but you do not have to like any of them," he said. "In fact, you do not have to like any gypsies. If you say that there are no innocents and even speak against her, you can send them all to the fate they deserve. They have no power over you and they have no power anymore in Paris. It is public news that Esmeralda acts as their representative. I even get wind of them attempting to strike again and she dies along with them. She does anything and they die with her. She is powerless, trapped, and one way or another, every gypsy in the city shall be as well; all it takes is your word and I will do everything in my power to make you feel safe enough to tell me every detail you can remember."

………………….

Gaetan had been silent for the rest of the trip, but promised she would tell him. Apparently she had plans of her own to do before then. He wondered if he should be concerned that perhaps she would go after Esmeralda or the man who had attacked her in the alley. He decided he just needed someone watching her at all times until then, and possibly for a while afterwards as well.

They arrived at the largest livery stables in the city, as well as what many people considered the best. All the horses for the army were bought from here and the richest merchants bought, sold, and stabled their horses here. The stables were large enough to hold a small corral in the back. The livery stables was on the far end of the city for a reason. Not only do horses, especially large crowds of them, have their own distinct smell and are not the cleanest of animals, but the livery stables earned most of it's money not from selling the best of the breeds it could buy and trade, but because the horses were used in their spare time to cart away waste and trash from many businesses and wealthy homes, selling it to chemists, miners, tanneries, dyers and even farmers. Still, the owner did his best to keep the horses at the front and the rest in the back and the smell to a minimum.

Claude tried to wave the smell away and grabbed a pouch of dried flowers and herbs to his nose for a moment before ordering soldiers to form a perimeter around the establishment before telling Gaetan to leave the carriage and follow him.

He walked inside and spoke with the owner to see the horses in the corral, insisting that he could not judge a good horse locked in a small pen and unable to move and would never think of paying for one if that was all he saw. He also insisted Gaetan would come with him, no matter what the owner thought.

The two were left alone with the horses at the corral. Some horses were immediately interested in attention from the humans, while some just wanted to know what they smelled like and lost interest after they knew. A few more left, finding them not worth bothering with if they did not have anything edible on them and other horses decided the two were not important enough at all, or at least not more important than what they were eating at the moment.

"You should pay attention," Claude said cheerfully. "I've decided to reward you with your own horse. You deserve it. You did, after all, take out five of them." Perhaps Esmeralda would be jealous and try to win his favor.

"Yes, master," was all she said, wiping horse spit from her face, only for the horse near her to feel a dire need to replace it immediately afterwards.

"Perhaps a large, strong horse," he said, mostly to himself, shoving a horse's head away from him as it tried to give him the same favor as the horse near Gaetan. "Very commanding."

"No, master," she said, this time waiting the horse out. She was going to be there a long time using that strategy. "Not one of those."

"No ponies," Claude warned her sternly, waving a finger in her face.

"I don't like ponies, master," she said.

"Good," he said.

The horses near them all scattered as a large black mare, far bigger than any of them, ran up to the fence near the humans and stomped in their direction for good measure to make sure they knew who was boss. The mare stamped and kicked dirt a few times and snorted, telling the other horses and the humans that she was the most important thing around here and no one should stand around dawdling when they could be admiring her. How dare anyone else get attention when she was around?

Claude smiled. This was just the horse he was looking for. He had a fondness for giant destriers and he felt the pure black ones did the best job at intimidation. This horse even had a liking for being in charge and making sure others knew it.

He'd never owned a female horse before, but he felt they worked the same way as apprentices, only these didn't need disguises. So long as the horse did what it was told and knew who was in charge and kept its focus off of other horse's rears, it didn't matter what gender it was.

The horse, however, had different ideas. It liked playing games the same way Claude did and so turned to Gaetan to sniff her first.

"Calm down and stand still," Claude ordered.

The horse smelled her for a long time, as if reading a rather interesting passage of a book. Gaetan was a very alpha female, though small. She'd been scared of something recently, though. Probably the strange little animal she smelled of had attacked her. The mare gave her a good humiliating chew on her hair to tell her she was worthy enough to hang around it, but not to get any ideas above her position.

"We are most definitely getting you a haircut," Claude said, smoothing the hair down.

The horse shoved him with its large head, trying to tell him he could get in line and it would get to him when and if it felt like it.

He shoved the horse back, not hard enough to hurt it, but hard enough to warn it that he could. If he wanted to do that, though, he'd have to draw his weapons.

The horse was insulted, but impressed and sniffed him. He put his hand on its mane, ready to force it back again if need be. To him, the horse needed some definite training in following orders and to the horse, he might need the same thing. The horse was a lot less impressed with him than it was with Gaetan. He was a male in his prime and another alpha. The horse had met many like him, both horses and humans and the horse didn't care for them. Being a mare, the horse felt men of both species were too forward and went too fast and wanted one thing only. Stallions wanted it from her and had to be chased away and humans had other humans, but were still single-minded in the same way and needed to be bitten. This human smelled different, though, she realized. He'd been around two females for a while, as well as that strange creature, but didn't smell the way other human males smelled. He'd left the females alone, even with a faint lingering smell of liking one of them.

A loud noise of one of the horses in the stabled kicking over a metal bucket rang out and Gaetan jerked her head in the direction of the sound. Claude and the horse followed in suit, and then turned to her, seeing no real danger.

"Do not worry, I am here. I won't let anything happen to you… or your little friend," he said.

"Quasimodo?" she whispered even though she didn't consider him little in any aspect.

"Exactly," he said. "I intend to look after both of you from now on. I helped him while he was in the hospice and I helped him return to the bell tower. Do not worry about his safety; I have those responsible for hurting him in my Palace of Justice as we speak."

"You do?" she whispered.

He could tell he had struck something and now knew what direction to dig in. "Yes, a gypsy and a woman he had hired for the night. She stabbed him in the side after you ran for safety."

"Is he hurt?" she asked.

"Quasimodo is healing. He will be in perfect health in a few weeks."

"I mean… I mean the gypsy." She swallowed.

He took her shoulder and she tried to pull away, but he held on tighter. "Whatever hold he has over you I will break it. Whatever he threatened you with I won't let him. Whatever he did to keep you silent I will make right." He put another hand on her other shoulder and griped her tightly.

"He did nothing!" she cried out. "He is an innocent, just like Esmeralda! I do not like him, but he helped me escape and did not hurt me. Let him go! He did nothing!"

"Gaetan, you are hiding something from me," he said. One of his hands left her shoulder and traced the line of her chin with the longest finger. "Are you certain that he is innocent? I will let him out without harming him if you believe it is a good idea, but remember: he will be out on the streets, free to do as he wishes."

"Yes, master," she said, gaining confidence in the situation. "He was afraid and took me back. That is all he did."

"Then he has nothing to fear from me," he said. Yet…

They turned back to the corral. The mare was impressed by an older stallion acting protective over a mare and letting her assert herself. That was how lead stallions should act. They should focus on the safety of the herd, not watch pretty tails.

"I want you to remember something Gaetan," he said, roughly petting the horse. At first the horse was angry that he was telling it he was the dominant of the two, but eventually conceded. He was an interesting human being and so was the female… and the horse would bite anyone who messed with them. "Ultio mea est, 'Revenge is mine.' Keep that with you at all times. No matter what happens, even a hardship as great as this, hold onto those words and do your best to come out on top, there is always a way. That is why I married Esmeralda, and look what has happened to her and her friends. Somewhere there is a stone and you will soon hold the giant's head up to the enemy to make them beg at your bloody footprints."

"Yes, master," she said proudly. She looked out at the horses and wondered which one, if any, she wanted.

'Ultio me est,' Claude thought to himself happily. It was indeed.

And it wasn't a bad name for a horse, either, Ultio….

……………..

In the end, Gaetan picked a sleek rouncey, entirely black save for a symmetrical spot of white on it's long nose. Frollo had told her 'no pagan names,' obviously in agreement with his horses on what they thought of Achilles, but she knew the name she wanted to give it instantly. She named the horse Abra after the maid who had escorted and helped Judith slice the head off an enemy general.

Frollo took Gaetan to get her hair cut short again immediately after purchasing the horses. After buying her a meal they took the carriage back to the barracks where Ultio and Abra had been stabled for them. Gaetan barely spoke, and most of the time was to her horse as Frollo taught her how to acclimate it to take orders from her.

Ultio gradually let Frollo take charge, so long as she was second in command and he had to bribe her with scratching her shoulders and feeding her treats at the beginning of going out. Abra, true to her name as a maid, let Ultio flaunt the fact that she was in charge and never challenged it. The two horses got along very well together and Abra followed Gaetan as dutifully as the human followed the older one, eager to do it's best and feel appreciated for doing it so well.

Abra, however, posed more temperamental than Ultio. Ultio wanted to be in charge and with her size and teeth, very few people or horses contested it. Abra was perfectly happy following someone and being a skilled underling, but it was only for one gender. She bit and nearly broke her stall trying to attack a nearby male horse in the stables, backed up and kicked a soldier she thought was too close, and Gaetan spent five minutes reprimanding Abra about trying to bite Frollo when he got close. Eventually she just glared at him and allowed him to be around, so long as Gaetan was as well and settled for pulling Phoebus's hair and knocking him in a puddle.

Ultio thought it was a wonderful prank, but refused to be let out of it and stepped on Phoebus as he got up. Proud to have shown yet another human who was better than who, Ultio turned form Phoebus to Achilles. Achilles had been chosen for being docile and obedient, although if he felt like a smart-aleck, he wouldn't hesitate to act on the impulse. Achilles ignored Ultio as she sniffed him and continued to ignore her when she shoved him to show dominance. Ultio had found a male who wasn't interested in getting too friendly, and yet wasn't a total pushover either. She found a lot of interesting stallions today and was determined to do her best to get to know them better.

When Ultio stopped, Achilles sniffed her back and soon returned to ignoring her. Ultio stepped closer to occasionally groom or say something in horse language. Achilles groomed her back a little and answered a few times and appreciated Ultio when she chased off Abra as she tried to attack him.

Phoebus, on the other hand, was not an interesting male to Ultio and was too easily knocked over to be given much thought to. When Frollo pulled her away as he ordered Phoebus to follow Gaetan as she took care of personal errands, Ultio flicked her tail in Phoebus's face and gave a nicker that told Abra she could do what she want with the males.

Abra rushed at the chance to terrorize Phoebus as he was distracted. Gaetan managed to pull him away from biting him, but the horse jerked forward and knocked him over again with its head.

"I preferred it when he bought you presents that weren't alive" Phoebus said, standing up as Gaetan pulled the horse's face away from him.

He mounted Achilles and pulled his horse away from Abra. Gaetan didn't say anything, but kept close to Phoebus as she rode through the city. She kept pulling Abra away from the males, but eventually the horse calmed down, happy that both of them were lower ranking than Gaetan and her. She acted content so long as males knew their place, which was under her place, and put up with being pushed around now and then.

Gaetan left Phoebus in front of the blacksmith shop after tying Abra up to a post away from other male horses. Phoebus wondered why she needed another weapon, considering she only had two hands.

Angry horses, sharp blades, and finally getting laid didn't seem to fix Frollo's mood one bit… but Gaetan's was understandably worse…. weren't thing supposed to start improving sometime soon?

She was in the shop a long time and came out empty handed when she returned.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"I asked for a set of armor," she said, mounting Abra. "Nothing special and not a full set. I bring a set over to him from the barracks and he will adjust it for me. We should go; if we don't get back before the stores close, I'll have to wait another day."

"I had you up to armor," Phoebus said as he followed her. "You going to the war or something? They're not too keen on… your sort of stuff."

"I'm not going to the war," Gaetan said.

Phoebus was quiet for a few minutes contemplating things. "You're not after my job are you?" he asked.

"I'd feel more comfortable with real armor on," she said.

"Should I be worried about what you're going to do in this armor?" he asked.

"I'm going to do my job," she said angrily.

Abra told Phoebus to shut up and he took the horse's advice.

They stopped at the barracks and Gaetan told him to stay where he was. She tied Abra a safe distance away from him and Achilles and walked to the armory.

Phoebus tried to take comfort in the fact that all his previous ideas had been wrong. No extra weapons, no going to war, and no stealing his job. That was all good, right?

While he was waiting for Gaetan, he noticed a familiar and very attractive and still very scantily clad woman walk by.

"You look well, Esmeralda," he said, honestly surprised. It was a bit hard to tell at first with Frollo, but Phoebus figured the man was in one of his moods and wanted to enjoy himself by seeing others more miserable than usual. He was surprised Esmeralda seemed perfectly fine and rather happy, if a bit bored.

"Do I know you?" Esmeralda asked.

"I work for your husband," Phoebus said. He couldn't wipe that talk with Jacques from his memory; how did she manage? "And your kid."

"Not my kid," Esmeralda scoffed, crossing her arms.

"I'm not her kid," he heard behind him. Uh, oh.

"Children, please," Phoebus grumbled.

"I am not a child!" they both yelled at him.

"I'm not his mother and I don't know where she is," Esmeralda said.

"My mother is in jail because of a gypsy," Gaetan said, mounting Abra.

What was going on around here? He was in a place full of aggressive females who spat at each other when they talked, even those who didn't go to the war dragged it around with them, and people greeted each other ranging from acting like rabid dogs to pillaging and burning. When did everyone become German?

'Someone please save me,' Phoebus begged.

"You break someone and I'm not cleaning it up," he heard.

Just who he needed, Jacques.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Phoebus asked. He was very glad he was safely up on the horse and not anywhere the doctor's hands would get.

"I am," Jacques said. "I'm keeping you from getting hurt by a woman with a tablecloth on her head or being eaten by a horse."

Gaetan rode past Phoebus on her way to the blacksmith.

"Well, I'm going to do mine before he shows up and takes it away." Phoebus left and followed Gaetan, at a distance.

"This is not a tablecloth!" Esmeralda exclaimed, shaking her sash at Jacques, who was slightly shorter than she was.

"Look, I'm sure you're a very… well, I honestly can't tell why Claude likes you," Jacques said. "Why does he like you?"

"Is it true that his mother's in jail?" she asked.

"Oh, so now I'm smarter than you?" Jacques asked. "It's very possible. Some gypsy and a prostitute were arrested recently. Sure made a mess of my hospice attacking Quasimodo, too." Jacques had heard of Gaetan's mother through a very strangled grapevine by the name of Phoebus. That man put his foot in his mouth so much he should have eaten it by now.

"Claude doesn't like me," Esmeralda said.

"Oh, it's like that," Jacques said. To him, it explained everything. Somehow Frollo had wandered into a female version of Phoebus and had gotten into the same situation Jacques was in over the captain. Lawfully being allowed, Frollo got himself into more trouble than Phoebus could… hopefully. Exactly how dim of a candle was the captain? "Well, I can't help you there and frankly I just showed up to distract you from the nice blonde."

"I have to go… do… a thing… with stuff…" Esmeralda said, and ran down the street to her new house.

"Yes, don't we all," Jacques said to himself. More and more he understood women a lot less.


	27. How does she know you love her?

Esmeralda had been threatened away from most of the shops she went to and the ones that let her stay when she immediately showed her small silver-and-emerald-wedding ring to refused to acknowledge her unless they thought she was stealing.

After giving up on trying to buy food for Djali for Gaetan to feed him—her—Esmeralda tried to visit her old haunts to at least see her friends. They were, after all, good people. But they were still gypsies. To gypsies, family was very important. She had been adopted into her clan, but she wasn't officially one of them; she was her own family. Clopin was the only one who really considered her a real family member since he'd been alone most of his life as well. Everyone felt this was a good arrangement, at least before the trouble started, given that if she had a trustworthy father, he wouldn't allow an attractive and very useful woman like Esmeralda go to just anyone. The goat, as well as both of their gold earrings, were gifts so she could support herself in the meantime if she needed, and she'd insisted on doing so for longer than was generally approved of in gypsy society. It was last rumored that Esmeralda's bride price was three whole cows, which someone had actually offered once and Clopin refused to accept anyway after she'd tried to tell the man she wasn't interested by dumping a bucket of pickle brine on his head.

She had married, cows or not, and she'd been given a lot as a bride price technically, and would maybe get herself even more soon. But marriage was about alliances, about help, about loyalty to gypsies, not presents. It was bad enough she'd married without her father's consent, but she'd gone against tradition and been married Claude's way and he was the worst possible person she could have married. He wasn't part of her own clan, she wasn't part of another friendly gypsy clan who could be trusted, and he wasn't even some French peasant who had no clue. When you marry you leave to your father's family and if he's a stranger, maybe—if you're lucky—they accept the man being around on holidays if he compliments your mother and bribes your father and pets your dog and fixes your house.

She had saved her people from him and she'd never be accepted by them ever again. She knew she'd been ostracized; news travels fast in the gypsy community and Claude had made the announcement public for all of Paris. She could face the hatred if she got too close, but she just wanted to see her friends again, just a glimpse and she could run down the street just after. They were good people.

But no one was about. The corner she used to dance in was occupied by a sleeping donkey who refused to stand up but was growing annoyed at his owner kicking him. At least people would have something fun to watch while she was gone. Taverns were near empty and the tavern keeper told her she wasn't welcome by glaring at her and raising a large cleaver as she stood in the doorway. Barely anyone begged out on the streets and those who did were all French. Even Clopin's puppet stand was empty. It also looked like a giant horse had gotten angry at a performance and told him what he thought of his art by eating most of the interior and smashing off a wheel and part of the roof.

Claude had promised her he would spare her people. Where were they then? As much as being his wife was supposed to be a privileged life, she didn't want to go anywhere near the Palace of Justice. Despite the public announcement, not many people recognized her and she'd already had to explain herself to five soldiers already. She wanted to stay on Claude's good side, or at least as much off his bad side as she could, and keep her promise of returning for dinner tonight. She went to the barracks, but just met the two strangers from the wedding and the day Claude had spent at the hospice.

Now she didn't have anybody.

……

Claude had also noticed the disappearance of the gypsies and remembered previous times they had done so: after the first attack on Gaetan, which he had thought was nothing more than a one of the worst of of a group of people who liked hurting others—Phoebus had mentioned noticing he was one of the darkest people out on the streets for days afterwards—the gypsies had fled like rats back into their holes upon catching a sniff of a sleeping ferret after trying to kill him in the forest.

This meant the gypsies were more organized and braver than he'd ever thought. They had not gone after him, but if he gave them time and a chance, they probably would. It was all about his apprentice so far. They had waited for her to wander off too far or waited until he could barely have noticed another cleansing flood or the giants that had caused it. But now she had gotten some of them in trouble. There was a gypsy in the Palace of Justice and it was her fault. Was she now untouchable or a greater target now? No one else knew that the fate of every gypsy rested on her, but if they were this good, they could probably figure that out.

At first he had stayed close to her to pry every secret she could tell him and he'd already managed a promise of that after she visited Quasimodo and bought something for herself later today. He also remained close as she kept as quiet as she could to watch the city around her, but the shadows and alleys were calmer than ever.

Upon meeting Phoebus, he decided the captain could watch her. The captain hadn't been very useful so far, and if being a human shield was going make him start, then Claude had no complaints. He followed them for a while at a distance, wondering if making it appear that she was alone would draw anyone out, but he left after a few hours and followed his wife instead. Phoebus could protect Gaetan, or at least make enough noise and trouble for any attack to go wrong. Anything Esmeralda was up to, even well-intentioned, was trouble he couldn't predict.

Claude couldn't tell what she was up to and the only complaints about he received in passing were that she needed a real headdress and should cover her arms. There were a few complaints about her being a bad influence on a few husbands, but Frollo had already gotten similar complaints about Phoebus near people's wives, some from the exact same households, and ignored them.

He met Gaetan and Phoebus, who had been ambushed several times by Gaetan's new horse.

"Sir, he's buying armor," Phoebus spoke up after Claude had told Gaetan they were going to his house.

"He knows I would not let him go to war," Claude said. "What concern is it of yours? You don't plan to hit him, do you?"

"I'm just concerned about whether I should be concerned," Phoebus said.

"Phoebus, you show far too much concern for him," Claude said. "If you really are that concerned, this is hardly the time to be getting such ideas. I'd also like an explanation for the faces you've been giving me if this is true."

"Not in that way sir," Phoebus said.

"Then leave him alone and do your job. Perhaps armor will put some muscle on him," Claude said, and left with Gaetan.

……………..

Claude came home half an hour after Esmeralda did. He sent Gaetan to go fetch dinner and used the few minutes he had to speak privately with Esmeralda. Esmeralda, at first, had other plans.

Esmeralda kissed him like a striking snake hitting his face. He pulled back and touched his cheek, as if expecting blood and she looked disappointed. He shoved her away as she tried to put her hands around his shoulders. "No wonder there are so may of you people," he complained.

"But I was told it's not truly official until we've been together," she said, moping.

"Do I have to remind you what happens if it isn't?" he asked.

"I mean, officially official," she said. "Isn't there someone to leave Gaetan with for a while? We can't just leave her out in the hall. It's rude and… well, I heard about her mother."

"This is a proper household and we will not speak of that," Claude said. "But it is true that it would be insulting." Claude thought for a moment and figured that if one gypsy was telling everyone who'd listen about Quasimodo then Esmeralda must know about him too. "I used to have her visit Quasimodo on Sundays, but what you want is forbidden on The Lord's Day. She will be visiting him tomorrow and I can have her see him on Saturdays as well. In the meantime, I do appreciate you putting propriety before… anything else."

The door opened and Gaetan came in with food after hiding behind it and waiting for them to stop talking. She didn't like the idea of the two in bed, but it wasn't her business in the slightest and kept silent about it. She didn't want him with a gypsy, let alone romantically, and the way she pushed for a private moment with him reminded her of men refusing to take 'my skirts are a bit too red this week,' as an excuse from her mother. At least Esmeralda wasn't shoving coins into his hands.

"I'll try to be as proper as I can, but I want to talk to Gaetan tonight," Esmeralda said.

"Esmeralda, not at the dinner table."

……………….

"I was out today," Esmeralda said during dinner.

Gaetan kept watching Frollo, who ignored both of them. To him, people who state the obvious don't need responses. Saying 'Yes, the sky is blue, isn't it' would just lead to a dumber conversation.

"I met a friend of yours I think," Esmeralda said. "He said something that got me thinking."

"Well, that would be a first for Captain Phoebus," Claude said.

Gaetan's morose expression changed as she smiled at the comment.

"No, it was the doctor," Esmeralda said.

"Esmeralda, he'd be perfectly fine explaining that to you himself," Claude said. It had been one of the reasons he had him check up on her. Claude turned to Gaetan as he picked up his goblet of wine. "You should start developing a taste for this. Much more refined than that rubbish." He indicated, very slightly, to the goblet of milk Gaetan had near her. "It's a nuisance to the cook to have to get it as well," he commented before sipping from the cup in his hands. He wondered why he'd just had a more enjoyable conversation with Gaetan, who had said nothing, than with Esmeralda. Whatever happened to Esmeralda being good at conversation? It was actually one of her redeeming qualities when he didn't have to pretend about so many things and she didn't speak nonsense on purpose.

"No, I knew that pretty much immediately last time I met him," she said. "Why do you like me, Claude?"

Claude choked on his wine so hard he couldn't breathe. He dropped his goblet to the floor, the wine spraying and splashing all over him and the floor, and covered his mouth. His other hand went to his chest as he struggled to breathe.

He stood up, pushing his chair away and knocking the goblet away with his feet, spreading the wine further across the floor. He grabbed his chest as he spasmed, awkwardly trying to force the liquid from his lungs and his other hand held his mouth in case the spasms worsened and he became nauseous.

When he found he could finally breathe, he swallowed the wine and food in his mouth and pushed Gaetan away as she tried to clean up the mess. She handed him the empty goblet and he set it on the table as Djali moved in to take over cleaning up the spilled wine.

"What?" he asked, still shaken. "What kind of question is that?"

"It's a perfectly fine one," Esmeralda defended. "Your friend asked me and I told him you didn't like me. I don't even care if you never get me a horse, I just want to know why you even bothered dancing with me on Easter."

"Gaetan, go in the bedroom for a moment," he said, putting his fingers on his temples. He really wanted to kill Phoebus for putting the very idea of marriage in his head.

Gaetan ran into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

Esmeralda stood up from her seat defiantly. She wasn't the only one bound by their little truce. He couldn't very well beat her for asking a question like that, not even the doctor would pardon that.

"When you told me you would tell no one, I assumed that meant people who work for me," he said. "Are you going to tell the captain next?"

"She lives in your house," Esmeralda said, standing up from her seat.

"I do not tell her about my mother," he shot back.

"If she is going to follow my orders, she should know why," Esmeralda said, crossing her arms. "I'll find a way to tell her myself if you want, but I want to know: Why do you like me? Do you like me?"

"Yes," he said. "And no. I am a public official, a gentleman, and above all a Christian! I do not appreciate being belittled in front of my apprentice, acting like a child or treating me like one, and I do not like your mockery of our marriage."

"Mockery?" she asked. When did she make a mockery of it? She'd been proclaimed a Catholic, worn shoes, and promised to make him happy as she was supposed to. Whatever other instructions there were for these primitive natives to get married that existed, he had neglected to tell her. It was his fault. Not that that fact would make him happier.

He threw up his hands and they shook as if he were torn between wanting to embrace her and pray to her from a far distance. "I will grant you what you want… so long as you tell exactly what it is I should do." He dropped his hands. Wonderful, another secret at her disposal to throw around. Well, she'd find out pretty soon anyway.

Esmeralda was suddenly glad she'd failed her own culture's requirements of being a virgin.

"But no more acting like your goat!" he demanded, pointing at her. "I am not edible, I am not a chair, and I am not a very warm pillow."

These things would be perfectly fine if she meant them, but he trusted her in that department as much as Gaetan trusted her not to be sneaking around behind her back or trying to trick her. Well, they would if she toned them down a bit.

"What do you like about me?" she asked.

"What kind of question is that?" he demanded. "I told you I loved you and I did then and I still do. What do you want, a poem?"

"Why?" she asked calmly, and somewhat ashamedly. Everything she tried to do to cheer him up… he hated it. Everything.

"How should I know?" he yelled, then put his face in his hand. He swore he'd had a similar conversation over forty years ago. Even married he was moronic when it came to women. "You're attractive…" That was good, right? Women liked to hear that, didn't they? "When we can actually understand what the other's talking about, you can be very interesting to talk to. We have similar interests… at least I thought we did. Look, if I wanted someone's opinion I'd ask, and so far I've only asked yours."

"Do you really believe there are innocent gypsies?" she asked, tentatively taking a step closer.

Claude didn't back away from her, but he was prepared to. "I believe there are innocent gypsies," he said. "but I do not believe in good ones."

Esmeralda reached out to him slowly and took his hand in both of hers. He didn't move. He didn't flinch, but he was still waiting for some sign to pull back immediately. "Please be happy," she said. "No matter what we're doing." She slowly dropped his hand.

"Are there any further questions, or can I breathe peacefully for the rest of the meal?"

"Can I still speak with your apprentice afterwards?" she asked.

"I will be listening to both of you," he said and went towards the bedroom door.

"Claude," she started.

He stopped, noticing she'd actually used his name. He didn't really remember telling her what it was. Most people, even gypsies, addressed him purely by his last name. The archdeacon did. Even Quasimodo did.

"If she cannot tell you anything… I'll help you find the Court of Miracles. I promise. But… it's my secret that I even said that. Don't tell anyone, not even her, please."

"If that is what you want," he said. "But I am very sure I will not need your help."

He opened the door and sent Gaetan back to the table to finish eating.

………………

Dinner was finished in silence, save for Djali's drunken hiccups.

As Gaetan left with the dishes and Esmeralda wrapped her goat in her sash and moved it to a corner to sleep off the wine, Claude selected a book about torture methods and sat down in the carved chair to read. He wanted something to cheer him up and it served as both a good distraction if the women decided to talk about… whatever it was that women talked about… and it kept them from seeing what he thought of their conversations if they actually said something he could later use against one or both of them.

"Come here and talk with me," Esmeralda ordered, happy with herself that Gaetan would follow her orders. She led her to the remaining chairs at the table and sat down. "Sit down," she said grumpily as Gaetan stood there.

"Is your mother really in jail because of a gypsy?" she asked.

Gaetan swiftly turned to Frollo for help but all he did was turn the page of his book. She turned back to Esmeralda. "She didn't start the fight," Gaetan said bitterly. It was his dagger, too. Her mother was the one who stabbed Quasimodo, though…

"What fight?" Esmeralda asked. She was going to have to do this backwards. She could start from the other end, but she didn't know where that was and starting in the middle would just make things worse.

"A friend found me in an alley by the brothel and tried to defend me… Everyone had heard the gypsies had abducted me. He couldn't have known one of them was trying to give me back."

Claude cocked an eyebrow at this news, but no one noticed.

"Was your friend Quasimodo?" Esmeralda asked.

"The gypsies have stories about him," Claude commented. He'd been meaning to find a way to get rid of the puppeteer who'd been telling them, but he couldn't arrest everyone who had heard the story or people would think it was true…er. If Esmeralda really was intelligent, she wouldn't go around trying to convince Gaetan of them. That would be like telling Quasimodo himself and replacing brute strength with sharp metal. "He knew I told the gypsies I wanted her back… as a he." There. He was blameless in all this.

"Yeah," Gaetan mumbled. She was going to see him tomorrow. He was going to blame her for the injury. He was going to blame her for getting caught. He was going to hate her. He was too good to deserve someone like her. She wasn't good enough to deserve someone like him. She just ruined everything for everyone.

"Someone rescued you?" Esmeralda asked. "Do you know who?"

"He had a hat," Gaetan said. "and some ugly puppets."

"Oh, Clopin!" Esmeralda exclaimed. She needed something to do with her bottled up emotions and thoughts. Her plan had worked, because Gaetan and Frollo seemed uninterested as all she recognized was the name of her friend, an insignificant man who made kids laugh (or run away afraid of a story or of his puppets being alive, but that wasn't' his intention). No wonder there were no gypsies around if he'd been arrested. He had said not to kill the kid, but they'd abducted her. What had he been planning to do with her? He couldn't' be behind assaulting her, that wasn't what a man who hung around kids was like… right? Or was that why he hung around kids? "But why was your mother there?"

"He wanted to bring me to her," Gaetan said.

"Wait…" Esmeralda muttered.

Esmeralda and Claude realized the same thing at Gaetan's statement. Clopin and Gaetan's mother… Prince must have gotten his volume from his father's side.

"He's been seeing a whore all this time?" Esmeralda exclaimed, only to realize she'd not only said it out loud, but very loud. Claude had said she was capable of intelligent conversation, not being intelligent during one. "I mean… not that she's a bad person… I just…"

Gaetan wasn't impressed at her statement and every time she tried to fix it, it was obvious she was just digging herself deeper.

"Why don't you live with her?" Esmeralda asked. "From what I heard, she's a nice lady." Clopin had neglected to mention her occupation or even that she had a kid previous to his, or that it was working for Frollo and armed with weapons and an attitude just like his… maybe less pleasant.

"I ran away when she got pregnant," Gaetan said. "She could barely afford me, and I didn't want her to starve. I was on the streets for four months before the captain asked me if I wanted to be an apprentice."

Well, that explained most of it. And Clopin was going to explain the rest.

"He didn't do… anything wrong to you, did he?"

"He… I…" Gaetan didn't want to mention that he'd at first wanted to use her against Frollo. Mentioning that would mean she'd admit he was in charge of all of them. She would tell him. She wanted to. Just not now. Not yet.

"Esmeralda, you are scaring my apprentice," Claude said, still focused on his book. "Stop it." He had noticed it too. If she didn't tell him after visiting Quasimodo, he'd bring it up and learn what the gypsies were plotting.

"One more thing," Esmeralda said. "Completely different, I promise. How do you look like a boy?"


	28. Bout Time

Claude escorted Gaetan to the cathedral the next morning in the carriage. He was sure the gypsies wouldn't try anything this soon after he had instituted the truce, but he wanted Gaetan to feel secure and he wanted privacy to encourage her to speak up.

"Do not be afraid of anything Esmeralda tells you," he told her. He knew there was something about that strange man with the puppets now and he knew it was important. He had several cards in his hands and one was wild. He had to know what it would do in order to be able to play them in winning order. "I believe she is merely misguided and acting on ignorance rather than malice. She told me stories of mythical good gypsies that I have yet to see and she saved my life the very day in the forest. Do not be afraid of her unless she actually shows cruel intent. If she does, I will deal with her. For now, do try to tolerate her clueless ways."

She said nothing to him in the carriage and was comforted as he did not seem to mind.

He had insisted on walking with her up the steps and told her not to leave the cathedral under any circumstances without him.

She had delayed in the church, watching the ritual from near a candelabrum and ran away as she saw the archdeacon notice her. She ran to up the tower stairs and almost panicked at the top. Although sunlight made its way past beams and pillars and ladders and narrowly avoided stairs and walls to light up the place where she stood, she held her arms close and shivered as she remembered the last time she had seen Quasimodo. She couldn't help but suddenly feel vulnerable again and the grabbed the long collar of her tunic to remind her she was fully clothed and still in her bodies, which she couldn't feel despite having to force each breath in and out slowly.

She heard footsteps and backed away before realizing what she was doing.

Part of her wanted to run, part of her wanted to run up to him, most of her told her both were stupid ideas. She stood where she was and gazed at the floor, wishing she hadn't come wishing she could stay forever.

"It's me, Quasimodo," the hunchback whispered, slowly wandering out of the shadows and reaching out his hand to her.

"I know… I…" She saw his hand but did nothing. She didn't run from it and she didn't take it.

Quasimodo dropped his hand, merely relieved she hadn't run away again. He left a large distance between them, wondering if it was enough and why it was there in the first place. "Yes… well… I…" He rubbed his neck nervously. "Maybe… Now… Did I do something wrong?" he asked, finding no other sentence that would put itself together.

Gaetan shook her head and grabbed herself tighter.

"Would you like to change?" he asked. "I'm sorry I forgot, I—"

She shook her head again.

Quasimodo ran out of things to say. He was surprised he got this far. He was surprised she was here at all. He contemplated going closer to her and bridging the gap entirely, but feared she'd run away again, this time for good.

Gaetan tried to will the feeling away, but lost the strength almost immediately.

"Do you hate me?" he asked finally, not sure where the words were coming from. He barely understood what happened to her, but he remembered that Frollo had told him that she couldn't tell friend from foe. She probably thought all men were dangerous, acting on instinct like a skittish horse. He couldn't imagine what it must be like for her, staying with both a man and a gypsy, even if that man was Frollo.

"No," she said, falling to her knees weakly. "No, of all things… I thought you'd hate me." Her words were interspersed with sobs, some of which she managed to loudly choke back and others that she was powerless to stop. "I felt so… so filthy. I thought no one would ever want to even look at me, never want to touch me but to throw me out of their way… I felt like trash and I thought everyone else would feel the same way." Her legs gave out and she fell to her knees and shivered.

Quasimodo had been halfway hiding behind the ladder that led away from the bells since he noticed Gaetan coming up the stairs. He was afraid of her running from her again like a pet abandoning its friend out of paranoia. But now he was sure he'd lose her if he stayed where he was. He closed the gap between them in a few steps and knelt down by her, softly putting a large hand on her shoulder.

She threw herself against his chest, as if too tired to hold herself up anymore. She didn't cry, but she shook and sniffled, completely out of tears and still afraid he'd send her away.

To her surprise, Quasimodo wrapped his giant arms around her, as if to keep her from running away again.

If anything, he felt the gypsies were trash, not her, and he'd throw them away on the street from the towers if he found one.

"You left the bell tower to find me," she whispered, clinging tightly to his tunic and pressing close. She never realized how much she missed her mother until now. Her mother, despite the concern over food and money and her daughter growing into a beanstalk rather than a nubile young lady or anything close to it, had been there to hold her in the truly worst times. The woman had wanted her to grow up, to face the harsh world, but had not abandoned her to a life devoid of a warm touch or another's emotions. Though only in the blackest times of their dark days in a dark time, her mother never refused her a warm chest or two embracing arms or a place where catharsis seemed worthwhile and safe from punishment. "How could you risk such a thing? You couldn't even have known I was alive."

"Easily," he replied. "I can't let someone take you or Frollo away from me, especially the gypsies."

"There are innocent gypsies, Quasimodo," Gaetan whispered.

"How can there be?" he asked, holding tighter. She couldn't be saying such things because she believed them. The gypsies had played tricks on her. They wanted to take her away from him again and he wouldn't let them. "Gaetan, what they did to you… you can't say there are innocent gypsies after that. They won't hurt you anymore, master promised. But you can't say there are innocent gypsies."

"He told me Esmeralda's an innocent gypsy," she said. She didn't push away from him as she told him. She preferred him over Esmeralda and part of her still didn't want to go back to the house, even with Frollo watching her, if Esmeralda was there. "He said she saved his life when he was attacked after they took me."

"But she's a gypsy!" he said. "Gypsies aren't nice, they're tricksters. She is going to do something to him, I'm sure of it! Tell me he's alright."

"She hadn't done anything to him," Gaetan said. Well, she made him mad a few times, but he was probably just frustrated he couldn't smack her around or arrest her like he could with everyone else that made him mad. That was probably the reason he did his best to stay away from the archdeacon. "If she does, I will tell you. I'll come here immediately, I promise, so long as you promise me something."

"Of course," he said. "Anything to protect you from the gypsies, even her." Especially her. A gypsy was not going to steal his father away with black magic.

"No. Trust me, there are innocent gypsies. I don't know if she's one of them, but they do exist. You have to believe me, please!" She was close to crying again and this time it would be his fault.

He'd just gotten her back and she was about to leave him again, this time for good, this time for a real reason, not out of fear of everything that moved. "I can try," he answered. That was the best he could do. He'd never seen an innocent gypsy and he'd never heard of one until now and in the wake of what they did to her, how could he believe her? It was like mankind trusting another snake.

"The man in the alley... he saved me. He helped me out of that horrible place. He was trying to save me," she said. She waited for him to reply, but he didn't. "I don't blame you for hurting him, but he didn't do anything to me. Frollo promised to set him free and… please, promise me you won't let anything happen to him either. He risked his life for me."

First Frollo, now Gaetan. Was he losing his entire family to gypsies or were there really sheep hiding amongst the wolves? Well, no one told him he had to like any of them and they weren't coming up here. Ever. He'd only been told to protect one of them if Frollo did something wrong, but Frollo could never do anything wrong. She was just scared of men still… scared of everyone. He didn't have to save any other gypsies and she didn't ask him not to defend himself against any of them, including her 'innocent' one. "You won't leave me again, will you? You'll come back after today, right?" he asked. He'd protect a million gypsies if it meant he'd never lose his family.

"Only God could keep me away," she said. "And he'd have to go through Frollo to do it."

……………….

Claude sent the carriage away and walked back to his house.

Most men—he assumed, at least—looked forward to the time they would consummate their wedding union with their wives, even if they were strangers. But Claude had been groomed as a gentleman for propriety and piety. His father had waited for him to find someone he was actually interested in despite his spells of sudden inability to handle his mouth or hands or feet properly when it came to courtship and his mother waited until someone was interested in him to tell him the details and they had both passed away without giving him more than 'when you get married, The Lord will call on you to beget children' and they probably both went to God's Loving Hands thinking they shouldn't even have bothered with that.

Even though any thought of Esmeralda could set his blood aflame and his mind would go up in one great fiery flash with nothing remaining but questions, the image of what little of her he'd seen, the feel of any part of her he'd so far managed to come to know, her captivating scent of thousands of fragrances he couldn't identify and wondered why he was interested in and even if he should be, her taste which he had been so lucky to have known: the sheer memory or imagination of any of it would change his body in ways that made him as wretched and terrified as Adam realizing his own nakedness.

All he knew, as he walked up his own stairs, was that this was a duty husbands must perform for wives, wives must perform for husbands, and married couples performed for God. As much as he feared God, he had no idea why God was interested in him doing such things but that was the one being Claude was never going to argue with. Nevertheless, it being a sacred duty did not make it sound very enjoyable and despite everything Esmeralda made him feel while it was a sin or when he was too tired and inconvenienced, he did not, at first, believe it was going to be 'fun' as she had said.

However, in spite of the fear, the ignorance, the confusion, and anything else he felt was impossible to describe, he was, above all else, male. So, when he felt himself grabbed from the doorway and felt someone else's tongue shoved in his mouth, he forgot why he had come home or even if it was the right one and was very sure it didn't matter.

Overcoming the initial shock—and remembering how to breathe—he took in the less immediate details of what was happening. Esmeralda, completely nude, was intent on wrestling his tongue into cowering submission and, having found that too easy to satiate her need for conquest, knocked hit hat off his head to land somewhere across the floor. Djali darted out the still open door and Esmeralda tried to close it with her foot, toppling them both to the floor. She managed to grab his gown and shuffle it up to his thighs before landing on top of him and from there Claude understood the extent of his captivity. His own primal hunger was nothing compared to hers. She was a legendary behemoth, bent on devouring the world, his world. Nothing was under his control, not his body, not his mind, not his actions, and most likely not his life. She was a voracious monster, a leviathan snaking around him, constricting him, holding him in place. Her hands were everywhere, roaming under his clothes, finding his every flinch at the foreign touch all the more mouth-watering and making him taste every ecstatic sensation of triumph over his shy struggles.

Just as before, when he'd only consented to barely know what power she held when taking him physically, he soon gave in, a reluctant slave praying for mercy and receiving a greater reward than he could ever hope for. He slowly moved his tongue and hips to hers, closely following every cue she gave him and urged him on to follow faster as she pressed him closer, as if training him like a wild beast she felt she had to break before teaching.

Once she found Claude answered to her every wordless want, unknowingly to be pushed further by the faint sounds he managed while crushed and nearly suffocated, Esmeralda became even more frenzied and nearly tore his clothes as she yanked his hose and gown and undershirt as far as possible without releasing hold of him by the mouth until she had taken from him control of the greatest prize of flesh she could ever attain from him.

Hips to his, chest to his, she paused in their tangled motions and pulled her hand out of his clothes to touch his cheek, seeing him bite his lip. "Claude…?" she whispered.

"Don't stop," he barely managed. His arms, which before had struggled and clenched against the stone floor, were thrown around her bare back as she resumed her slithering, constricting motions and he treasured her for it, for to him, he'd found Eden. This wild, untamed paradise was truly the wondrous union both God and Christ had bestowed upon mankind as the greatest gift. He understood why men sold their souls for a chance to be near the feeling of two souls as one, two chalices pouring into each other's infinity. This moment was all he needed in his tired, doomed life. Here was a promise of chasing away all nightmares in a hallowed, perfect glow. It was one moment that he could give her everything he had and make her the happiest she could ever be and it was him and only him who could give her this and feel the joy of such a privilege. God had granted this to couples, for they may forever be strangers to each other, but in the joining of two souls, there was a replacement for love between them. So long as there was one moment now and then in which they were both bent on each other's happiness in pure, undeniable truth, he could survive the torment of heartbreak all other days throughout his lonely life.

To her, he was her Adam, her snake, her apple. He had been created purely for her, for he had dominion, but she held all the power of this one act over him. He was a creature of temptation, something offering more and more the further she reached for him. He was the sweetest fruit she ever tasted, for she never knew before what power and control were or what it was like not just to have them, but to use them to coax willing servitude from another by forcing happiness upon them.

Claude watched as Esmeralda suddenly arched over him, shaking and driving her fingers into his shoulders just before he cried out to God and all the Saints, dragging his nails across her back, scarring it with an epitaph to the loss of last of his virgin innocence. He felt his whole body shatter in a culmination of ecstasy from the sacred God-given act and blinked away newborn tears from his eyes at the sight of the sunlight setting Esmeralda's hair ablaze in a golden halo. This was the Holy Spirit, the divine feeling and knowledge of God, His Son, and the Love they could bestow. He had touched heaven.

Esmeralda lay down next to him on the floor, pressing as close as she could next to him to share the warmth of their bodies and the cooling of their nerves.

"Should I—" he started. He knew as much about the beginning as he did the end. Eventually, he was to be cast out of this wonderful garden.

"No, not yet." she whispered, gently setting her hand on his cheek. "You made me happy." 'What a perfect toy,' she mused.

………………………

Claude instituted a new rule after that: if Esmeralda wanted to play this game, she had to find someway to clean up after it—he changed this rule to exclude him as she tried to help him clean up before returning to work. Esmeralda didn't complain; in her culture clanliness was imperative, especially about such acts. Besides, his clothes had sopped up most of the mess and making it had been worth wiping up a small patch of the floor.

She reminded him that there was no shame between a husband and wife to see each other nude as she used the washroom with him. Her words did not please him much as she hoped. Even though he had nothing to fear from God, he was still unused to being exposed before another person, especially her. It truly had been Eden. He'd gone in as an ignorant servant to a higher power and left frightened and ashamed, forever remembering paradise and wondering if he'd ever deserve to be allowed in by omnipotent and benevolent arms.

Esmeralda, however, had tasted coition from different partners and in different ways. She had thought she knew all there was of carnal knowledge, but was rather delighted to have picked up the information that it could be this fun if done entirely her way, but had no idea why Claude was still acting shy afterwards. Catholic men sure were weird.

She was also glad that her half of the bargain to make him happy—at least part of her half—was to do the laundry. She may be a Catholic now and abandoned by all her people, but it didn't mean she'd abandoned her own beliefs. He felt the aftermath of copulation was dirty; she felt washing both her clothes and his in the same stagnant water was too.

"You should be happy to hear that I have some gypsy to evict from the Palace of Justice today," he said as he finished dressing. He knew it was pointless to try to win her over, but he wanted her to believe he was holding up his end of the 'truce' and to make her stop asking questions that made him or Gaetan uncomfortable.

"Who? Clopin?" she asked.

"I don't know," he scoffed. "I rarely ever know anyone's name. Probably; Gaetan said he was one of your innocent gypsies. What part of this is leaving me alone?" Claude knew people by crimes most of the time, or whatever they had done to be in his presence. Gaetan had been caught by his captain, who had been hired to do the part of Claude's job that didn't require any thinking, Jacques took up a profession of putting people back together while Claude tended to break them for him, the archdeacon just seemed to like annoying him, and Prince had the misfortune to be constantly fall into the hands of people dumber than him.

"He's a good gypsy," Esmeralda corrected him. "Just like me."

Claude said nothing and walked out the door.

………………….

Giselle was a voluptuous woman, shaped in the very ideal of women for her time. Painters would have been highly impressed by her round waist and rounder chest and hips, though they would have added a bit to her in the height department if they featured her. Art said that men wanted a lot to hold, a large, healthy woman, neither interested in anything out of shape nor in anything resembling a pole, no matter what else you added to it, either. Art would certainly say Giselle was attractive. People, on the other hand, wouldn't, but that was where statistics lie. First, one obviously had to eliminate everyone too blind to see and everyone too deaf to hear the question. After that, one had to eliminate all the women from the consensus for a number of reasons. Then, one had to eliminate everyone too young to understand and then eliminate everyone in the age group who did understand but would only answer that 'all girls are icky.' Next, one had to ignore every answer given by men standing by their wives or women who at least one of the couple hoped would be their wife-to-be and then one had to eliminate the answers given by men too afraid of those women catching wind that they answered in the first place. Even still, many demographics must be ignored, such as those like Jacques for not being interested if she paid them, men like Frollo, who would demand to know what business it was of yours to go asking and then proceeding to yell about you having impure thoughts and trying to give them to him, and men like Phoebus, who would stare for a long time and when you repeated the question to them, they'd say they needed a closer look.

Yes, Giselle was gifted with the ability to turn heads. Clopin, the man who didn't like anyone else's heads turning about her, had discovered she had another talent for turning heads by using her hands to smack them around in different directions. After learning that lesson, he decided he didn't want to learn what would happen if he kept talking. Rubbing a bruised jaw, wincing at a sore cheek, and thankful he only had two eyes for Giselle to blacken, he hoped Frollo had set Paris on fire and was roasting someone over it.

Well, he wasn't dead, Giselle wasn't dead and Prince wasn't dead. Exactly how good was three out of four in this situation? Or was it three out of four thousand?

Clopin wished he could break something that wasn't his, preferably several people's necks.

He looked over at Giselle. She was curled up in the hay on the ground in the other corner. Clopin had asked why the cells in the Palace had hay in them, considering it seemed, well…nice… and Frollo seemed… well… not. Frollo has said hay collected blood and 'other stuff' and made cleaning the cells easier. Clopin didn't want to know what 'other stuff' was, but he was sure both he and Giselle were going to find out when—if—Frollo ever returned. The man was just waiting for them to lose spirit and her tire out of her beating on him.

Hopefully Giselle would make it short…or maybe not. Once that entertainment for Frollo was over, he'd actually start torturing her professionally. Maybe he should volunteer to be Giselle's punching bag for the next million years.

The main door to the hallway opened and Clopin could hear soldiers walking towards the cell. It was about time someone came to feed them and change the bucket. Frollo liked his prisoners in good health before he tortured them. So far, the soldiers guarding their cell had taken advantage of this and given Giselle a stick to take her troubles out on him so they could see a live action Punch-and-Judy show.

To Clopin's surprise, it wasn't just the two usual soldiers who had come to stand in front of his cell, but Frollo himself as well. "And everyone thinks there's something wrong with me and women," Frollo commented at Clopin's bruises.

Clopin wondered why his family kept torturing him just for Frollo to have some laughs at. He also wondered why Esmeralda hadn't found a large blunt object and put the man out of her misery yet. For a Minister of Justice, Frollo sure didn't have much going around. In fact, he seemed to be seeping it up like a sponge.

Well, Giselle may hate him, but he still felt it was his duty to stand up for her, even if she made him a bit wobbly doing so by pounding on him like a drum. "Do what you want with me, but leave her alone!" he shouted.

"Oh good," Claude commented, not caring. He gestured to his soldiers. "Grab him, leave her. Get his things."

Giselle didn't move as one of the soldiers opened the door and dragged Clopin out and closed the door after him.

"I am going to do everything in my power to stop you from even touching her," Clopin growled.

"Yes, because as we all know I'm deathly afraid of puppets," Claude said so nonchalantly he seemed about to yawn. "Let him go."

The soldier released Clopin's arms from behind his back. The other handed returned from somewhere Clopin hadn't seen him disappear to his Clopin's hat, belt and dagger.

"I—what?" Clopin asked. This must be some new tactic of Frollo's. "I can explain."

"About?" Claude asked. He grabbed Clopin's arm and dragged him down the hallway.

"Um… nothing?" Clopin said. "Can you explain, then?" Was this how interrogations went? Clopin had been arrested before, but he'd just been yelled at and sent away before actually going to a cell because Frollo thought he was too stupid to get away with anything the soldiers claimed he was guilty of.

"Gaetan told me you were innocent of any real crime, so I don't need you taking up space in here anymore," Claude said, opening the door to the Palace of Justice and tossing Clopin out. He threw Clopin's things after him. "By the way, that contract you signed was indeed the least of my problems." He walked out the door and into the road by Clopin, his arms folded behind him.

"But, but what of Giselle?" Clopin asked.

"Who? Oh, the other person in there," Claude said, pretending he didn't care. There was something suspicious about this man and he not only had something to use against him to keep him from running off or causing trouble, but also leverage against Gaetan if she was still too shy to keep her promise after all of this. 'Yes, life is good,' Claude decided. "Oh, she's actually in trouble. She stabbed Quasimodo so that makes her guilty of anything from assault and battery to attempted murder. Capital punishment for both."

Clopin eyed his dagger as he was about to put it back in its sheath on his hip. He could easily attack the Minister and end up back in jail with Giselle, but that wouldn't actually accomplish anything. He wouldn't be a martyr, he'd be a moron.

"Unless of course I decide to post bail," Claude said, as if talking to himself. "Would be rather steep if I bothered. I'd have to ask my apprentice, I'm sure he'd make a reasonable decision."

"He?" Clopin asked. "Right… he. Definitely he. Don't know how I could have thought anything else…"

"Clopin, is it?" Claude asked.

"Er, yes."

"Go away."


	29. The Bells of Notre Dame

Frollo had left for the stables for most of the day afterwards. As he stood near Ultio and petted her to reaffirm his role as a leader willing to pay her to do as he asked, she shoved her large nose at his crotch. "Stop that, bad horse!" he yelled. He should barely be conscious of that part of his anatomy; his horse definitely shouldn't be at all.

Ultio, worried that the human that she had allowed to be lead stallion had found a female to jump on while he should have been concerned with monitoring the rest of the herd, decided to investigate what was going on the best way she could. She was a boss mare and any male who was going to be above her was going to share the duty of leading and protecting the herd, not getting distracted and messing with female's behinds and it didn't matter what species he was. Soon she forgave him for his transgression, upon learning the circumstances. She didn't understand how humans worked that way and didn't care, but whatever human mare he'd been with had started it herself. He was a very good boss stallion indeed, even if he was tiny and scrawny and looked funny.

Ultio leaned forward and curled her neck and head around his in the equine equivalent of a hug. She apologized for thinking he was like all the pathetic males she'd known.

Claude sighed. "Women." Did all of Paris have to know?

"Uh, sir?" Phoebus asked behind him, tentatively entering the stables. Claude was glad the horse had moved its head. Considering the captain talked to his horse and expected an answer half the time, being hugged was hardly something Claude felt he should be embarrassed by. "Yes, what is it?" he asked, focusing on his horse and telling it he liked it better than the captain by doing so.

The horse approved and nickered happily and teasingly about it.

"There's some loud argument over at the hospice about that kid you had with you a while ago."

"Tell them it's perfectly fine, but that they're all too stupid to be handling it," Claude said. "and that I'm not going to go there unless I have to arrest one of them." Arresting Jacques would just be silly, arresting the gypsy would ruin his plans, but arresting the archdeacon might be fun. Besides, it was his dumb idea that led to this.

"Where are you going to be?" Phoebus asked.

"Somewhere else," Claude answered, grabbing Ultio's saddle. "And if I catch you or anyone else giving me strange looks, you are to walk Gaetan's horse around Paris s punishment."

……………….

"Quasimodo, I don't like this," Gaetan whispered as he slowly led her backwards. He had his hand over her eyes and his other one was leading her backwards. "It's too much like the Court of Miracles, please…"

"I'm right next to you," he said. "Here." He lifted his hand from her face, but kept hold of her hand.

They were standing under the bells, the largest one there was, in fact, Big Marie. The bell was so tall that the top of the cone vanished into shadow like the ceilings in the rest of the church. It was so massive the air around them smelled of iron. At first, Gaetan felt the thing was a giant cage or a mouth reaching out to them and cringed against Quasimodo, but her curiosity slowly overcame that idea. How could such a massive thing be made out of a solid piece of metal? How did it get here? How did it stay up purely by a rope? There was no mystery to the windows depicting saints or the tall carved arches or the millions of statues glued to the side of the cathedral. No Devil-magic could have shaped this secluded part of Notre Dame like this. It was nothing more than an inconceivable amount of metal suspended in an infinite amount of air. The size was overwhelming. How could it be moved by mere human hands? Of course, only someone who had lived his whole life beneath the grace of a monument to the Holy Virgin could wield it to make it call out to all of Paris.

"See, they won't hurt you," he said, his voice echoing, seemingly spiraling up into the nothingness at the top of the bell. He sat down on the criss-crossing beams, careful of where there were none. "They're my best friends—besides you, of course."

"You really love the bells, don't you?" she asked, carefully sitting down with him, dangling her feet over one of the beams. He could see something alive in the cold vessels of metal and emptiness that she couldn't. She could see the magnificence of them, but they were still lifeless objects.

"Frollo gave me permission to ring them every day on my birthday. I mean, he asked the archdeacon of course but… it's like they're a present from him," he said. "When I was very young, he told me they were what angels sounded like. I still believe that. Except her." He pointed straight up. "She must be what God sounds like."

Gaetan look up and wondered what that particular bell sounded like. She'd never paid attention to the bells before, even after meeting him, but just like everyone in Paris, they were part of life and when they went silent, it was a bad omen. That was what she'd come here for. Not the bells in particular, but some sort of sign that there was no danger in revealing her secrets, and signs only came from God. "No wonder I couldn't hear them down in the Court of Miracles."

"Then it's time you did," he said. He picked her up off the beam she sat on and set her down on the solid floor away from the bell. She couldn't be underneath the bells with them swinging around. But then, he remembered that Frollo, as much as he liked to hear the bells, liked to hear them from a distance. "You should stand back."

Gaetan stood behind the ladder as Quasimodo rang the bells. But it was more than just the sound of unfeeling metal striking more cold metal. He could make the bells sing. The bells were more than just music. They were power. It was the voice of God and Gaetan thought of everyone who had made it possible to hear him again and for the first time in her life, even if she never went back to any of it, even if it was ripped away again at that moment, she felt truly blessed.

………………….

Claude himself had been looking for a sign. He had to leave his two dogs to each other long enough for them to settle down, but he couldn't have Gaetan thinking she could avoid telling him. Everything she knew belonged to him. His pets were not to have secrets of their own. He owned them. He kept their souls safe by teaching them what was proper and who to avoid. He owned their bodies and they were his to throw at his enemies when and how he wanted. He most certainly owned their minds or he'd have found ones without them.

The bells were his signal to return to the Cathedral. It was time to find out exactly what she knew and use it to his advantage. Paris was his city to protect and watch over and now he'd know the last and darkest of its secrets.

………………

Gaetan and Quasimodo were sitting on the railing of the balcony that overlooked Paris. To them, there was nothing different about it. They could see no missing gypsies, or even the only two that were about in the city. They could see Frollo approaching, but they could not see how his arrival would change the city. They could not see the Court of Miracles or even how he'd find it from what she knew of it.

Gaetan turned to get up, but Quasimodo put his hand on her shoulder and stopped her. So long as Frollo could find him, Quasimodo could be where he wanted while in the bell tower when his master arrived. Often, Frollo would surprise him by sneaking up on him, but the boy was sure those times were all just coincidental.

"Gaetan, you remember your promise, do you not?" Claude asked behind them soon enough.

She turned around on the railing. For some reason she'd been more afraid of the bells than of falling off the church, even while Quasimodo taught her how to climb. "But I don't know where the Court of Miracles is," she said. "I really don't."

"You know far more than you think," Claude said, bending down to touch her cheek just slightly with his middle finger. "Do not tell me what you don't know; tell me what you do know. For instance, what about that man with the frightening puppets? Something disturbed you about him last night talking with Esmeralda. What is it about him that unnerved you so?"

"But you said you'd set him free," she whispered.

"And I did," Claude said, kneeling in front of her. "But I also know about him and your mother. As much as it must hurt you to know this, she is in the Palace of Justice. The night you were found she attacked your dear friend Quasimodo. If it were not for my soldiers, he would have died on the streets. I'm sure she only meant to protect you, but don't you see what that gypsy has done? He's sent your mother to jail and nearly killed your only friend. You said he was an innocent gypsy and I believed you. Whatever else you tell me about him I will believe as well. Is he in some sort of danger? Is he worried for someone else, perhaps?"

Gaetan just blinked at him, wondering just what to say. She opened her mouth, but a tiny strangled squeak was all that came out.

"You can tell me," Claude said. "He is not one of those awful people who attacked you, is he?"

"No!" she suddenly cried. "No, he saved me from… he… He was nice to me. None of this was his fault. He told them all to stay away from me, but half of them wouldn't listen!"

Frollo's hand fell away in shock.

Quasimodo took hold of Gaetan's arm tightly. He had learned the virtue of silence around his master and reminded himself of it when he heard of the woman in the alley being Gaetan's mother. He wanted to calm his master as he saw Frollo's brows furrowing, but knew it was impossible for anyone to do so. Instead he decided to be an anchor in case Frollo or Gaetan, who was trying to pull away from him, forgot where she was sitting.

"You mean to tell me you have met the leader of the gypsies?" Claude screamed, rising to his feet. Surprisingly, that was as long as his anger lasted. He wondered if the gypsies were far more effective than he thought and actually had tortured her into submission or if he had intimidated her too much with his stories.

Gaetan nodded and swallowed audibly. "But half of them are too angry with him to listen. They're afraid of him, but… They were the ones who grabbed me. They wanted to kill me, but he wouldn't let them. They… They thought he wasn't looking and… they said awful things about you… they said you… they said you did the same things that they were going to do. He saved me, master. He saved me from them and he brought me back. He tried to bring me to my mother. He can tell you where the Court of Miracles is, but he is innocent."

"You must have been concerned for her safety, knowing the danger that man posed to her," he said, pretending to brush away his anger with newfound understanding.

"I was worried for you, master," she said. "I thought that if you knew while he was in jail, Esmeralda would go after you. I thought that if she could trust you I could protect you from her."

Claude smiled. One of his dogs had dug up his tulips to give it to him as a gift at the dinner table. Well, it was a well-intentioned present and he did have the flower by the roots. "You do not need to protect me from Esmeralda, Gaetan. Good boy," he said, placing his hand on her head and petting her ruffled hair. He turned to Quasimodo to do the same. "I am so very glad you two are such good friends." He did not want to know what Hell he would have to deal with if they hadn't. "Gaetan, you are to stay here until I return."

He left his dogs alone. They had their own yard to dig up.

………………..

Clopin grumbled as he did what he could to fix up his puppet stand. He'd need money to fix the broken wheel and the roof. Why did so many problems of his require money? He'd sold his own gold earrings and used old brass ones instead to afford to give Prince his little ones and he still needed more. Why, of all people, did Frollo want money? Sure it was a more cheerful alternative to paying in blood, but he had blood on him. Money was a lot more difficult. Considering all the trouble that man gave him, he wouldn't be surprised if Frollo had let loose another horse in the city which had caused the damage the cart.

"Clopin?" he heard someone exclaim behind him.

He turned around and saw the last person he expected to find, and the best person to find in his opinion. "Esmeralda?" He leapt over the ledge and embraced her, happy to feel her arms around him. "You're alive!" he yelled happily, holding her by the shoulders to make sure he wasn't mistaken, despite her hug. "You're alive? Why are you alive?"

"He got his apprentice back, Clopin—" Esmeralda tried to explain.

"Oh good, you can stop trying to going out with him now," Clopin said happily.

"Clopin, will you listen to me?" Esmeralda asked. "I married him—"

"I know that technically puts a stop to going out with him but that's not what I meant… wait, you mean as in past tense?" Clopin shrieked. "How could you?"

"Because he'd kill every single gypsy in Paris starting with you!" she explained.

Clopin stopped interrupting. Most likely it would start with Prince and Giselle, which would be worse.

"Clopin, listen. It's some sort of peace settlement. He'll leave us all alone if we leave him alone, but he'll kill us all if we go against him. Do you understand?"

"I understand that we're all doomed," he replied. "They're all a bunch of crazies, Esmeralda! Well, half are, the rest are just scared. I can't control them. I mean, I might be able to keep them down for a few days, but they'll probably just go out and do it all over again and I don't even know what all they did the first time."

"They abducted that poor boy!" Esmeralda said.

"Yes, well I know that… and the other details about the kid. I pulled the damn guy off of… him. I meant how'd they get the kid away from him without Frollo following?"

"He was distracted," Esmeralda grumbled. Why did everyone have to make this look like it was her fault?

"What did you do, take your top off?"

"Hey, they shot at me too!" Esmeralda shot back.

"What are you talking about? Who shot at you? You and who?" Clopin asked, gesturing wildly with his hands. "Never mind, I think I just figured it out. Just tell me he didn't follow up on that promise of his about the kid…"

"He didn't," she said. She did… sort of.

"Oh, Esmeralda, it's my fault. As backwards as these people are, they still need a father's consent to marry his daughter. I signed you away in exchange to know how to take care of Prince and now he's got him and Giselle!" Clopin hung his head. Those horrible people were right about him. He was a bad leader and shouldn't be listened to.

"About Giselle," Esmeralda said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "You never told me she was a harlot!" Esmeralda shook him as hard as she could.

Clopin waited for her to stop shaking him and let go to explain. "It's not like she likes her job," he said, rubbing his neck. "And even if she did, we could've worked something out. I don't see what it has to do with anything anyway. She's still a great person and a lot better with our kids than me and she nearly killed hers…"

"She… wait, what?" Esmeralda asked.

"It's not may fault!" Clopin defended. "She had that kid years before I met her and the father ran off like a coward. Funny thing about the kid…"

"Clopin, I know about Gaetan," Esmeralda scoffed, crossing her arms.

"Gae—How—? …Right," Clopin mumbled. "This is all sorts of messed up. If you ever learn to write, draw me a chart or something."

"Clopin, why didn't you tell me?" Esmeralda asked. She really was trying to be concerned about him and everyone else.

"What, you couldn't tell she was a girl either; you wouldn't have been much help," he said. "Plus I was in enough trouble over Giselle. I was lucky they weren't going after her. I know four thousand people would be a lot better than one at finding a little girl on the streets, but I didn't trust what they'd do with her then and I don't trust them with anything now."

Esmeralda wanted to continue their conversation, but she was interrupted as someone grabbed Clopin and yanked him out of the puppet stand.

"Hey, you can't treat me like this!" he complained to several soldiers, who immediately thrust spears in his direction as a warning. "Then again, if you put it that way, you have a point."

Esmeralda spun around. Frollo was on another giant horse, this one looked like it wanted to give her attitude as well, with more soldiers behind him, all of them standing at attention. "Esmeralda, go home!" Claude ordered her.

Esmeralda stood where she was in shock. "What happened?" she asked meekly. She was allowed outside. All she was doing was talking. Surely none of that could have counted as breaking their pact. Had there been another attack? If so, why hadn't Clopin heard of it? Or was that how much he was losing control over everyone? What was going on?

"I said go home. Now!" he yelled.

Esmeralda ran down the street as fast as she could and didn't look back.

"But you said I was innocent!" Clopin complained. Why did all his attempts at helping others have to be suicidal these days?

"And you are," Claude said calmly, riding up closer to Clopin, but not disturbing the ring of soldiers. "But that woman you were so concerned with still isn't. I thought you might want to hear what will get her out of jail. I'm sure you can come up with it easily. Esmeralda must have told you about the truce between us. You have one day to show me where the Court of Miracles is or I have my men lawfully exterminate your lot wherever they stand for an act of aggression against our pact and your woman dies by crushing."

Clopin said nothing. He was too sunned to speak. Had he saved anyone in all this? Gaetane—Gaetan seemed well, although he hadn't seen her since the night of his arrest. Esmeralda was alive and unharmed, but she was married to Frollo. That had to be the worst torture there could be for a gypsy. Frollo practically owned Giselle and Prince as well now.

"All I want are those guilty of conspiracy against my apprentice," Claude said. He wondered if he'd managed to overwhelm the gypsy and he was temporarily catatonic. He'd pushed people too far with torture in his early years and that had set interrogations back days. He sighed. "Do I make myself clear?"

Clopin nodded.

"Good." Frollo waved to his soldiers and they lowered his weapons and backed away. "However, if I even suspect you're up to one of your gypsy tricks, you will never see that baby again." He waved his soldiers to leave and rode off.

Clopin slumped against his puppet stand and slid to the ground.

After everything he'd done for everyone, all he had to show for it were brass earrings and a smelly hat with mystery stains everywhere. No money, no family, no luck, no friends… now Frollo wanted to steal his people away? They were all he had. He was all they had. He couldn't give them up, no matter what.

Could he send every single one of them, men women and children, the good and the bad to the gallows or the press or the stake? He wouldn't have it anyway, but did that mean he could just throw it all away?

How could he question Esmeralda like that? She came to him as the only person who'd give her a chance after what she'd done. This truce must be public for Frollo to be throwing it around and all marriages were announced to the city. Everyone must know by know that she'd married the enemy and consequently she'd been banished from the court. She knew this would happen and she married him anyway to protect them.

Right now, dying for what was right seemed so much easier than living for it.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" he asked himself.

The loud peal of the evening bells rang through the purple air.

"Shut up, I wasn't talking to you."


	30. Little Black Raincloud

Claude returned home to with Gaetan early find Esmeralda staring out the window with Djali in her arms. She didn't react as Claude shoved Gaetan away and she found a corner to blend in with the rest of the house in with the walls and he shut the door.

Claude had intended to finish work. No matter how many sharp objects he pointed at a gypsy, it didn't mean they'd do what he'd say. It didn't even work with the French all the time. He could still be bested now that he'd set all his cards on the table.

"You do not have to worry so much about covering your hair," he said to Esmeralda nonchalantly. "Unless you plan to cut it." Only women like Gaetan's mother cut their hair and they had to by law and wear certain patterns on their sleeves in order to identify themselves as such. Gaetan didn't count, she was a boy.

"It's tradition," Esmeralda said, and bitterly sulked, still staring out the window.

"If you truly want to, I have asked for veils to be made for you," he said. "But you're a Catholic now. I do not understand why you are so upset."

"I'm still one of them!" she yelled at the window. "It's still my life and I'm not going to give it up even though I have no friends now!"

"I have no friends," Claude said, shrugging.

Esmeralda spun around to face him as he still stood by the door.

Claude stood where he was. To him, they were having a nice conversation, but he didn't understand why she was so emotional about the topic.

"That's because you're mean and ugly and evil!" she screamed.

Claude shrugged. No one liked him for exactly those reasons. Well, almost no one liked him. His pets liked him. For some reason even that annoying baby liked him and Appolonia at least thought he made a nice chair. He didn't consider himself evil and no one but lawbreakers called him that to his face. He didn't have a reply to what she said.

He turned to Gaetan who stood by the wall across the room, but she shrugged as well.

Apparently that conversation was over. Seeing Esmeralda calm down after getting her exclamation off her chest, he figured he could start a new conversation. Actually, he didn't really want to talk about it, but women liked pretty things. This should lighten her mood and it seemed safe enough to tell her without any repercussions now. "In two weeks we should have the wedding feast. It seems only proper and I thought you would like to organize it."

"But I don't know much about parties," she said. It did seem fun though. Lots of presents and no surprise crazy women this time to get them.

"Well, I know nearly nothing, so that would make you the expert in the household," he said. Good, that seemed to have cleared that up. He felt slightly better for having given her something pretty and making her happy with it—though anyone could have given her a wedding feast and so it was hardly anything special—and she could keep from annoying him with strange emotions he didn't understand.

"Can I dance at the wedding?" she asked.

"Esmeralda—"

"Not with you," she said, smirking at him. "It'd be silly to dance with a man in a dress. Besides, even if you did try to teach her, she's got to be worse than you."

Gaetan shrugged.

Well, she hadn't mentioned is mother, or the church."Then yes," he said. "Just remember, two weeks, so—" He stopped. It had been two weeks since he'd retrieved Geatan. He wondered if he'd gotten any clue about any problems of hers before, but he realized she'd been rather secretive about being a girl and never actually talked to him about her own gender and the significant differences from his, despite how he'd teased Phoebus. "You two. Go in the bedroom and talk. Now!" he ordered, pointing to the bedroom door.

Esmeralda set Djali on the floor and slowly entered the room while Gaetan quickly scooted into the room. Gaetan slammed the door behind them.

Esmeralda looked at Gaetan. The girl didn't move. She stood straight and waited with her arms behind her back. She'd probably wait there all day if Esmeralda told her to. Or at least until Claude gave her different orders. This toy wasn't as fun.

"Why are we here?" Esmeralda asked. She wanted to go and talk to Claude more. Maybe he'd promise more presents.

"He thinks I'm pregnant," Gaetan said flatly.

"Can't we talk about something nicer?" Esmeralda asked. Why couldn't the kid be funny anymore?

"I'm not pregnant," Gaetan said.

"See, there you go, that's nice," Esmeralda said. "And I'm not either. Claude's happy about that, aren't you happy about it?"

"I'd be happier if you two weren't practicing when you didn't want one in the first place," Gaetan replied.

"How come I can't have a pleasant conversation with either of you?" Esmeralda asked, putting her hands on her hips. "I've talked to nicer soldiers than you!" Admittedly, those soldiers were either knocked unconscious or that captain. "Start with Claude, he's easier than you."

"You've tested that theory?" Gaetan asked.

"Wrong answer, kid," Esmeralda grumbled.

"He likes talking to men—smart men," Gaetan said, correcting herself to explain why talking like Phoebus wouldn't work. Nor would belching like him impress Frollo. "You were doing okay before. I don't think he knew why you were upset, but he thought it was a nice talk. He wants you to love him, but don't talk about it." Gaetan wondered if it was her own desire to pelt boys with rocks if they tried to talk to her like Claude tried—or wanted—to talk to Esmeralda back in April or if the man had rubbed off on her, for mentioning his feelings, even if they were obvious enough for Phoebus to have caught on, made her feel degraded and stupid. It was indeed like talking about ponies or knitting or ribbons, but a lot worse.

"Oh, pfft." Esmeralda waved at the statement away like an annoying fly. "He can get by without that. He's a thing; you save love for real people."

"Can I go now?" Gaetan asked.

"Go pet the goat," Esmeralda told her, opening the door.

Claude grabbed Gaetan by the arm, and she suddenly wanted to run away. Or at least never be in the middle of their mutual mess of a marriage again.

"You, dinner," he said, and let go over her. It wasn't quite 'sit,' but it was a normal enough command.

"I think you should know the truth about something," Esmeralda told Claude.

"Is it gypsy tradition to not leave me alone, too?" he asked. He wasn't annoyed or angry about the discussion yet, for he wondered if it would fulfill its potential of being another enjoyable one.

"I told you I admired you when I first approached you, but in truth I just wanted to find a way to distract you from persecuting my people unjustly." There. She said it and she had said it proudly. Now they could understand each other perfectly, have pleasant conversations so she wouldn't be bored, and he'd go back to thinking she was smart.

For a moment he just stared at her, rolling over what she'd said to him in his head. She didn't notice his feeling of loss at knowing he'd never meant anything to her, that anything he gave her had been meaningless and she only pretended to appreciate the silks or flowers or rides or dances and anything she ever said to him truly meant 'look over there, a distraction' rather than ever meaning 'this makes me happy for a few seconds.' The only facial reaction he made was blinking away stray lingering thoughts of hope so they wouldn't overtake him later at an embarrassing moment. He never really smiled at her and he already seemed depressed at everything around him, so Esmeralda had no idea he was actually moved by her words. "Well, it is good to see you're smarter than I had at first assumed." That wasn't a compliment. He thought Phoebus was smarter than her at the time.

Gaetan came into the room with dinner and began to set the table. Claude gestured to it to politely ask Esmeralda to seat herself.

"In truth, the only reason I pursued was to obtain the secret of your gypsy Court of Miracles," Claude said, seating himself gracefully. "However, Gaetan has provided me with much more valuable information about it and in less than twenty-four hours I will either have it or I will know the extent you gypsies will go to defy me. I have given an ultimatum to your leader to show me. Do not worry, I will keep my word. Your innocent friends will be left out of all this."

"You told him?" Esmeralda accused Gaetan, who shrank back in her seat at the words.

"Esmeralda, do not make a scene at dinner, please," Claude said, as if reminding her not to put her elbows on the table. "I felt this would be more effective, honestly. I gave him a lot more incentive to keep from betraying me than I ever could give you. Besides, he has a lot more influence over them, even if it seems to be waning. But I should fix that as well. What do you think?"

Esmeralda stared blankly at him, too overwhelmed to speak. She felt betrayed that she meant nothing to him and she didn't know why. She felt betrayed by Clopin for keeping secrets and telling them to strangers… even if they were his children that he'd taken in even when everyone else, including them, protested. She felt angry that Claude still refused to trust her or any of her kind, because she wanted her words to mean more than all the death and torture he'd had thrown in his face. How could she love a man who forced her best friend, her people's strongest protector, their trusted leader with only them in mind, to betray them all? He was supposed to come in invited; he was meant to bow down to their power. That was what everything she did was about. That was why she even bothered to be with him in the first place. That was why she married him. That was why he was nothing more than a toy and such a good one at that. He was supposed to have changed. She was supposed to tell him what to do. He wasn't supposed to still be in charge. How could she ever love something like him? She wanted to punch his face in and feed him his stupid hat.

"What?" he asked. She was acting as if he'd sold her goat to the butcher. "I haven't even tortured anyone yet."

Esmeralda's lower lip trembled, but she forced herself to take take a bit off the meat in the trencher. She couldn't taste it. All she could think of were people beaten before finally being strangled on the gallows. There was still a chance she'd join them in both.

"It's how these things work," he said. It was like tying your shoe, only there were more rules and it was slightly more difficult. People like Phoebus could never manage to learn even the basics of it.

"Are you going to teach her how to do it?" she asked, taking another bite. Frollo had been very adamant that if she was actually going to live in his house with him, she would have to find a way to deal with his schedule and one part of it was meals were going to be served on time and there would be no randomly changing of that. If she missed one, that was her fault. As depressed as she was and as much as she couldn't stand him and wanted to throw the food across the room, she didn't see the point. If this was her last meal, she'd eat it and if it wasn't, there was no point in making it so by acting up.

"When she's older," Claude said.

Everyone was silent at the table from then on. Gaetan didn't look at either of them. She missed one person berating her for something she actually did instead of feeling caught in the crossfire of slashing claws of two ferocious beasts. She wasn't involved in any of this. She had done exactly what they both wanted and stayed out of anything they hadn't asked about. Why did she even feel she was in any of this? Why was this painful to watch? Frollo was just her master and she was just a servant. At the closest, they were just mentor and student. How could his crappy marriage affect her unless they wanted a whipping boy?

Claude resigned himself to quiet duty. It was his job to keep order in his own house. He had a duty to his job and to God and to his station before he could squander anything on himself. He was a Minister of Justice before anything else and he would not succumb to emotional weakness and bend the law over it. He would not be swayed. He could not show his apprentice that it was ever right to let passions steer one away from doing what was just or what was asked of you. God had appointed men to keep his family protected, fed, and well. His own happiness was secondary to Esmeralda's, but she had to know how the world worked and had to come to terms with it. She had to calm down and find a way to keep herself content. What he wanted from her would push her into a worse mood. She had been proud of leading him around by a string attached to his heart, and that was what he'd given her. If time and food did not calm her, he'd settle it after dinner, as one did not disturb mealtime as she had already done and he was not about to turn it into a real disaster. He may not even have any consolation that anything he gave her made her happy, or that she even mildly felt for him in her so-called 'good' gypsy heart, but of all the things he was prepared to sacrifice to her his free will was not one of them. She could not give up how she was raised, nor could he. The world called to him for help and he would go to it, no matter how blind her demands could make him.

Claude stood as Gaetan cleared away the dishes after dinner, patting her hair before she left. He still had her and Quasimodo. His horses and his dogs wouldn't betray him. He'd been right all along in thinking they were all he needed. People were nasty, cruel things. He'd been taught that since he was twelve and sent off to an execution to meet women at. Humans ranged from dully unfriendly to wholly untrustworthy. His hounds didn't count. They wanted to be with him. They understood him like his horses. All he wanted nothing but obedience from them and yet they gave him affection as well; they barked and attacked and pushed him away from the threat of people. They were so good to him and all they asked for in return was security and a comforting hand now and then.

Esmeralda stood up after Gaetan had left. She wanted to throw something. She wanted to smash something. She wanted to strike him. She wanted to take one of his presents to her and rip it apart in front of him. She knew she couldn't and she knew he'd take it the wrong way. It wasn't just him she hated. It was so much more. This truce was ridiculous. It was pitiful. It was a farce written by someone with no humor at all: God.

She stomped her foot to get Frollo's attention and he turned around. She didn't take notice of his expression. He didn't matter. Nothing mattered and that was the problem. "I hate everything!" she screamed and ran into the bedroom, throwing the door closed behind her.

Claude had noticed tears falling from her eyes as she had turned away from him. He knew he was including in 'everything' and he was pretty sure he was all it included. He opened the door to the bedroom and walked in quietly, shutting it behind him.

Esmeralda was kneeling by the bed, her head on her arms as she sobbed into the covers. Claude wondered what to do. Just when he'd managed to sit calmly through trying to accept that everything he did for her amounted to nothing, it was worse. He meant less than nothing. Before he met her, he'd have been proud to have thrown her in the Palace of Justice along with the rest of her kind, arsonists, murderers, thieves, rapists… They were people that took things without regard for others, property, dignity, lives. Now, he'd given her everything he could conceive of. He gave her salvation, safety, the lives of her own people, shelter, food, luxuries, silly baubles, stuff to make herself clean and beautiful, personal secrets, and he'd let her insult him to his face and all it did was bring her tears? Did that mean him being here was making things worse? She hated him. That was impossible to change, wasn't it?

"Should I say something?" he asked.

She stopped sobbing enough to reply. "No," she said, muffled by the blankets. "Just go away."

Wishing this wasn't all he could give her, but hoping it made her happier, he left, closing the door silently.

Gaetan was standing in the doorway to the stairs, staring at him and obviously prepared to run down them and hide in the closet full of cleaning supplies.

"You are forbidden to ever grow up to become a woman," he said, gently pulling her out of the doorway and closing the door behind her.

"So what do I become?" she asked as he led her to sit next to him by the chair.

"You can still be a female," he said. "Become a lady if you have to. My mother was one. But she wasn't a woman." Women were emotional and were tossed about by them like fluttering ribbons caught in the wind. There was no predicting their flapping between fits or which one they'd fly into any second or the next. Long ago, his mother had hired a servant, but had sternly kept the woman from being near Claude as she did not want him to get the idea of marrying someone low class—so much for that plan—and he'd once seen her crying like Esmeralda, but all that had happened was she'd seen a mouse. His mother had wept at his father's passing, but it had been private and reserved as it was meant to. "If I had my way, you'd grow up to be a gentleman." If he had his way, she'd grow up the way he felt he was supposed to and never be attracted to anyone. He had been perfectly content until he saw Esmeralda, she didn't need someone else taking that away from her.

"And you," Claude said to Djali, who was hiding in a corner. "The only feminine thing you're allowed to do is have children." It could have ribbons and flowers all it wanted. It ate them and that made sense.

………………………

Esmeralda felt damned in the world. There was no hope for anything. She had married a man who killed and tortured for a living and did it as casually as he breathed and as seriously as he prayed. He clasped his blood-covered hands together and looked up at God and felt he was a good man.

And somehow it wasn't his fault. Fortune-telling was forbidden in his religion and anything strange and frightening was explained as witchcraft and punishable by death. It was his way of life, the same way her gypsy traditions were hers. Gypsies lived on the fringes of the law; they were hard to catch, they did not understand, and they banded together against him. No wonder he thought they were the worse than all other criminals he hated.

And yet, if the gypsies were in charge, if they led the law, they'd act no better. They'd drag the Catholics out of mass and beat them for eating hen's eggs and they'd all get together to stone that strange doctor to death, no matter how many people he'd helped or how many he never touched.

The entire world was made up of monsters and the very ones who had raised her to be able to say 'this is the way I am and the way I live and it's not bad no matter what you say' were people Djali would look down on.

……………

Esmeralda pretended to be asleep long after she was through crying. She crawled into bed with her clothes on and closed the curtains on her side of the bed. She could sense Claude and Gaetan moving about, changing clothes out of each other's sight and praying before going to sleep. She heard Gaetan curling up in her pallet and sensed Claude extinguishing the candles about the room. She could feel him behind her, standing in the dark with the curtains open and watching her in the faint light of the new moon. He stood there for a long time and she never felt obligated to roll over and look at him. At last she heard the familiar sound of him crossing himself, his large sleeves of his nightshirt shifting noisily as he did so, and he gently crawled into bed, careful not to wake her from her fake slumber.

Hours later, her head in too much pain as she thought about everything that had disturbed her and ripped her world apart like wolves feasting on a lamb, she sat up and looked at her husband. He hadn't even heard her call him a thing. He had no idea she'd batted away the concept of loving him like a piece of paper with a mistake on it. It wasn't her fault he'd fallen in love with her… except, that had been her intention in the first place. She had wanted him to sit and watch her and do nothing except maybe offer her the occasional flower or bread until he died of old age, all his remaining years wasted on watching her dance with her tambourine.

He'd given her his heart and she'd tossed it in a corner, thinking it wasn't as nice as any of the other gifts. Besides all the presents, he'd practically handed himself over to her, bound and gagged and even with a ribbon on top. He'd given her his mind and she'd shredded it to confetti and played with the pieces, tossing them over her head and laughing. He'd given her his soul, handed over in matrimonial law and he couldn't take it back. She could have had it earlier if she tried hard enough, ripped it away from him and robbed him of it the same way other gypsies had taken his parents away. In the end he'd handed over his body for her to ravage as she wanted. He had given her his virginity, saved himself for marriage and surrendered to someone whom he was now convinced thought his heart belonged with the squalor out on the street.

Why did she have to be plagued like this? He was her thing, her shiny useless object, her wonderful toy. But he wasn't meant to be human. That was the problem with everything. Everyone had to go and be Goddamned human. Why couldn't things be good or bad? Why couldn't there be nice people and evil people? When did everyone turn into just people?


	31. Let the Rain Pour Down

Esmeralda had fallen asleep an hour before dawn and consequently awoke a few hours before noon. Claude was understandably gone and the curtains on his side of the canopy bed had been tied up. Esmeralda winced as her stomach reminded her she had missed breakfast and slid out of bed. She tied up the curtains and noticed the room looked different.

At first she couldn't tell what was wrong, but she soon noticed gradual differences as she wandered around the room, taking a closer look. The Bible had been taken down from the bookshelf. The rosary had disappeared from the dresser. The money was gone. It was obvious the house had not been robbed. No one would be stupid enough to try and The Bible and the rosary were hardly worth stealing in the first place. All but one of the crucifixes and all tapestries were still on the wall, the silver crosses were still on the curtains, which were still on the bed. Nothing had been disturbed, just a few things were missing. Claude must have had a strange bout of late spring-cleaning.

Esmeralda stepped out of the bedroom to see Gaetan dressed in partial armor. She wore a cuirass with faulds and tassets and a set of cuisses around her thin thighs. The kid looked more serious and threatening in her new armor and Esmeralda didn't need clan healer to tell her this was a bad omen. Gaetan had a black bag slung over her shoulder. The bag wasn't full, and seemed to contain little more than a large book, probably the illustrated Bible. The bag made the mystery of the situation look worse, but all Gaetan did in her eerie appearance was stand by the window and rock and stroke Djali, whom she held over her shoulder. The goat was happily asleep under the pampering.

Gaetan caught sight of Esmeralda and stopped her affections. She seemed to contemplate setting the goat down or putting it in Esmeralda's arms. Djali gave her own opinion and bleated and licked Gaetan's ear and Gaetan agreed with the suggestion and went back to rocking and petting.

"Awww," Esmeralda admired. "See, isn't he a big lovable ball of cuddles?" she asked, walking up to rub the hair on Djali's head.

"Not really," Gaetan said. "She's just a thing."

"Where's Claude?" Esmeralda asked, hoping to change the subject.

Gaetan gave her a confused look.

"Frollo. Don't you know his first name?" Maybe Claude should start writing people's names on their shirts.

"He never told me," Gaetan said. "He said you're to stay here until someone comes back."

"Someone?" Esmeralda asked. Who the heck else lived here? Was the cook going to tell her she could go out?

"Captain Phoebus might come by," Gaetan said.

"What's going on?" Esmeralda asked. "Why can't I leave?"

"He's gone to find real people and arrest them," Gaetan said.

"So you're watching me?" Esmeralda asked. It was bad enough Claude had sent that doctor over to babysit her. Not that he was a bad person, but she wasn't four. Now this little tiny thing was going to watch her? Well, what else do you do with a babysitter than break out the toys? "Then you can read to me again. We should find the one about the four ravens."

"I know that one," Gaetan said.

"Isn't it romantic?" Esmeralda asked.

"How many ravens were in this story?" Gaetan asked.

"Four. Four ravens. A sorceress turned a king's children into ravens, but the king fell in love with her and it broke the spell. True love conquers all. Isn't that how it goes?" Esmeralda was confused. How could that not be romantic? It was much better than gouging out eyes with thorns or taking advantage of sleeping women.

"That's not how it goes at all," Gaetan said. "True love is weak. Betrayal conquers all."

"What are you talking about?" Esmeralda asked. She wanted to tell Gaetan to tell the story right. "How does it go, then?"

"There once was a magnificent kingdom with a very good king," Gaetan began. It was an old story her mother had told her years ago. But she was too old to go around believing in such things anymore. Regardless, she still liked it. She told it to the goat and let Esmeralda eavesdrop. "He had a very good queen, but on the day the story begins, the queen lay dead and the entire kingdom mourned her passing, except for one person. There was one set of dry eyes in all the kingdom and they belonged to a very powerful sorceress who had made her way into the king's halls. She wanted power. She desired money and riches and finery and she longed to hold the kingdom in her hands like thousands of other baubles and toys she'd have as the king's wife. She used her magic to trick him, to remind the king of his lost queen, pretending all she wanted was to make him and his children happy. In time she didn't need her magic anymore. He fell in love with her and he vowed to marry her. As the wedding drew nearer, strange things began to occur to his children. Balconies gave way under their feet, pillars and huge statues toppled forward on their own accord, rugs moved, and animals attacked. The king could not give up his beloved woman, but he also could not ignore what happened to the children. He hid them away in the woods, in a place that could only be found by a magic key. One day, the sorceress found the magic key and went to the children. She said she missed them and wanted to give them all presents to wear at the wedding. She gave them each a magical shirt and told them to try them on."

"That was nice of her, wasn't it?" Esmeralda commented.

Gaetan rolled her eyes and continued. Gypsies didn't know how fairytales worked. "The children were four boys and a girl. The girl went outside of the hut they lived in to change. The boys took off their shirts and donned their new ones, but once the shirts touched them, the curse on them turned them into ravens and they smashed their way through the windows and warned their sister and helped her run away. She ran for a day and a night, until she found herself in another kingdom. There she rested in the wilderness, warned by her brothers that the only way to break the spell would be to keep utterly silent for four years, four months, and four days."

"And then she went back, right?" Esmeralda said. This wasn't romantic at all. The one where they killed the queen by making her dance in a fire in iron shoes was better. What was wrong with these people? What were they teaching children with stories like this? Claude's story was better and he made it all up… sort of. "What about the sorceress?"

"One year and one month and one day had passed when the girl was found by the prince of the new kingdom. Although she was still bound by her vow of silence in which she could speak no words, let out no scream, or utter a single cry, he found her enchanting and began to court her and eventually they were married and he brought her home. But she was not safe and she was not happy. She could say nothing and even worse, when the prince brought her home to his mother, it was the sorceress who had caused all her misery standing on the steps of the palace. She had killed the king on their wedding night and her lust for power had only grown and she demanded more, taking the prince's father soon after. She remembered the girl and was determined to stop her from breaking the spell.

"The prince loved the girl, but had no idea why she cried in the presence of his mother. After another year, another month, and another day, she bore him a child, but the sorceress bewitched the child and stole it away in the night and blamed the girl. At first the prince sided with his wife, but after another year, another month, and another day, the same thing happened and this time he believed his mother that the girl was a witch, after his heart and his life. Her four years and four months and four days were nearly up, but the sorceress knew this and had ordered her execution on the last day. She had remained silent all this time and kept silent as she was asked to recant on the cross. But when the tinder around her feet was set aflame, she shrieked to her brothers to come to her rescue. The four ravens flew to her in her new country and shoved the sorceress into the flames and they each became human again upon her death. The princess was pardoned for her witchcraft, but because she spoke out four minutes too soon, the youngest brother was not fully whole; he had one black wing in place of his arm for the rest of his life."

"At least it's a happy story," Esmeralda said.

"Yes, the evil sorceress was killed in the end," Gaetan said. "That's what's important."

"But the princess was happy, wasn't she?" Esmeralda asked.

"Who knows," Gaetan said, halfway turning to Esmeralda. "She never loved the prince. Her two children were killed. Maybe she got a horse and rode away. I've always wondered about the men in the story, personally. I wonder what the brothers did, especially the one with the wing, and the prince was never loved back by her and his two children were killed… or lost. Maybe it was for the best for them, though."

"But children belong with their parents," Esmeralda said. "Who love them."

"Love doesn't mean anything," Gaetan said. "Love just makes people miserable." Love made Claude mad, her mother cry, and had gotten Quasimodo injured. Love was some disease that Lucifer had given people. It just made everyone sick and sad and dead.

"But love is beautiful," Esmeralda argued. Love was pretty, like flowers.

"Prove it," Gaetan rebuffed. Maybe that creepy man loved her mother or the baby or even her, but where did any of that get him?

"Who do you love?" Esmeralda asked.

"Things," Gaetan replied.

"Didn't your father love you and your mother?" Esmeralda asked. "Wouldn't it be nicer if your mother loved you too?"

"My father ran away from us!" Gaetan spat at Esmeralda. "He abandoned my mother when she was pregnant with me! My mother loved me and you have no right to insult her just because she didn't steal food like you people!"

"But she… she tried to kill you when you were a baby!" Esmeralda defended. "How can you say she loved you after that?"

"Easily," Gaetan retorted. That was all the explanation anyone needed, gypsy scum or not. "And I love her. That's why I ran away. I wanted her to be able to afford to live, even if she had to kill another baby. Even if she was a prostitute. She's a good person and a lot better than you."

"I never stole anything!" Esmeralda yelled. "I earned every tiny little coin I ever got. I never hurt anyone, either."

"You hurt him," Gaetan said, turning back to the window.

Esmeralda now realized the significance of the bag with The Bible and presumably the money in it, maybe even the rosary. "Is he coming back?" she asked concernedly.

"I don't know," Gaetan said. "He went there." Gaetan said 'there' the way Frollo used to say the word 'gyspy' and sometimes still did. The worst of the worst and probably worse than that.

"There are good gypsies," Esmeralda said, hoping to say something correct and cheerful.

"I know," Gaetan replied. There was no anger in her voice and she wasn't talking to the goat anymore. "Clopin is a good gypsy."

"He really loves your mother," Esmeralda said, putting a hand on Djali's head and scratching her behind her ears. It wasn't Gaetan's shoulder, but that seemed a bit too forward right now. "And your baby brother."

Gaetan didn't reply. She just watched a cart go by out in the street.

"They're married you know," Esmeralda continued. "That mean's she's a gypsy."

"No it doesn't," Gaetan said. "She's a Catholic. She's different."

"She's both," Esmeralda said. "Just like me. I couldn't marry Claude without being one of his people."

"You can't just do that," Gaetan said, turning back to Esmeralda. "Someone special has to say you're one and you have to prove it."

"They did," Esmeralda said, still petting the goat's head. "and that's how gypsies work. He's their leader, you said so yourself. So when she married him, she agreed to be one of his people. And when that happened, you're one too because he's your daddy and she's your mother. See, there are good gypsies; you're one of them."

"But I don't want to," Gaetan exclaimed. "You can't make me be one of you. I don't want to dress like you or dance or go back to that horrible place again. I don't want to wear a dishtowel on my head or wear earrings or do any of your crazy sinful things."

"You want to hear a secret?" Esmeralda asked. She had almost won Gaetan over. Or at least apologized and she'd almost accepted it.

"No."

"Well, you're going to," Esmeralda said, putting her hands on Gaetan's shoulders.

Gaetan eyed them suspiciously, alternating between looking at one and then the other.

Esmeralda didn't care. Exactly who was the kid going to tell? Frollo had taught her you don't talk about such things and she'd already been kicked out by every gypsy there was… well, maybe not Clopin but he already knew about it and didn't actually mind… well, not on her part. "I don't follow all those rules either. I'm twenty-four and this is the first time I've ever been married and I've known a lot men very intimately before." She'd also shoved her way between two men and shown her legs to whole crowds of people to secretly insult them and didn't wash her hands after touching Claude and lots of other stuff she couldn't really explain. If it weren't for Clopin, she'd probably have been thrown out of the entire community by the age of fifteen.

"But what happens if I don't want to follow your rules?" Gaetan asked, feeling pinned on either side by a gypsy.

Esmeralda took her hands away, seeing how distressed Gaetan was getting. She sighed. Yes, gypsies had punishment for doing stupid things or having too much fun too. "Then you're kicked out," Esmeralda said. Technically, most people were killed over transgressions, but those too important or who would be too suspicious to find dead were banished. "Like me."

"Why did you do those things, then?" Gaetan asked. Adults made no sense. Why did they keep breaking rules they believed in? Why not just break rules they didn't believe in, like Phoebus?

"I didn't get kicked out for those reasons," Esmeralda said, going back to petting Djali. She really wanted to have something to hold and hug herself, but she also felt it was rude to steal the goat away from Gaetan. "I got kicked out because I married Claude."

"Why?"

"Because Claude's a gadjo—a foreigner that they'd never accept, so I got kicked out too."

"I meant why did you marry him."

"Because if I didn't, he'd kill every single gypsy, even your daddy and brother."

Gaetan wasn't too happy with Esmeralda talking about Clopin and his son as her family, but it was technically true. "You don't have any friends?"

"I have Clopin… I think," Esmeralda said. Clopin wasn't too keen on Frollo in the first place and probably still thought this was a great opportunity to make herself single again and should have had his funeral planned by now. "I have you."

"No, you don't," Gaetan said. "She might. She doesn't make other things miserable."

"You're not going to like me at all until I love him, are you?" Esmeralda asked. People were too complicated. There should only be toys and things and goats. She had dreamed of servants at her back and call and fine clothes and expensive soaps and fine bed sheets and she thought it must all be like walking on a fluffy pink cloud. But now she had all those things and all she felt she was walking on was the hard, cold, stone floor. Not only did none of those things make her happy in the least, but she was arguing over making the servant like her, something she never considered important in her dreams. All she wanted now was her goat, her good friends, and her toy. Her goat had been stolen by someone else who needed her more, she'd sold out her friends to save them, and her toy barely wanted to be played with more than once a week.

"Nope," Gaetan said flatly. That was all there was to it. "Because I'm a thing too."

"He'll be back," Esmeralda said, putting her hand on Gaetan's shoulder.

………………

Clopin felt it was too easy to lead Frollo to the Court of Miracles than he liked. Having to save the nasty minister from his own people would certainly be something he'd want to drink out of his head afterwards, but it would have meant that someone somewhere was doing their job.

He told Frollo to wait a few minutes hidden in one of the tunnels and headed off to see if there was any hope for anyone anymore. At the very worst, he'd at least have saved Giselle and Prince and Esmeralda, which was better than absolutely no one.

Clopin wasn't comforted at all as Frollo just stood there and nodded before he ran off.

While Clopin was away, struggling through the angry throng, breaking up a few fights and shoving away people who tried to start them with him, one of the soldiers whispered to Frollo, "was that wise?"

"It doesn't matter," Claude answered calmly. "You have your orders and you can carry them out without me. Phoebus has more men up on the streets and he is smart enough to know when a military maneuver has gone wrong and will report to Gaetan if it does."

The soldier went back to standing at attention. He should have known that even while leading his men to what he considered his greatest triumph, Frollo was as skilled at morale as head on a pike.

Meanwhile, Clopin had managed to climb the gibbet by now and he could be heard in the tunnels trying to get his people's attention.

"Excuse me! What, are you all four?" he yelled.

The arguing and fighting in the crowd continued, half the gypsies picking on the other half and neither showed any inclination to stop. Why did his half have to be the half that cowered in the corners?

"Would you all just stop for a few seconds? This is important!" he screamed. "I'm talking to you! I am still the leader of all you people!"

Some threw a rock at him and he was forced to dodge.

"Okay, I'm not your leader, whoever you are," he yelled in the direction the rock had come from. "Where do you keep getting those, anyway? Okay, fine, anyone who wants to live, raise your hand. Now!"

Half the crowd threw up their hands, most of them both hands, as if surrendering. Very slowly a few others stopped and raised their hands, followed by a few more and after several minutes, most of the entire court hand their hands up, wondering what was going on and when it would be over so they could get back to fighting or trying to escape fighting.

"Why did that take so long?" Clopin grumbled. He knew the answer and he hated it, but that was the problem Frollo was going to fix, hopefully while leaving everything that wasn't the problem alone. "Okay, in three seconds, do exactly what I say no matter what, which is absolutely nothing. Do nothing at all. One…" Clopin covered his eyes with one hand and counted down with the other. "This would be a great time for Judgment Day," he whispered before continuing. "Two…" He sighed. Someone should give God a good chewing out for this. "Three."

Perfectly on cue, Frollo's soldiers spread out from the tunnel, engulfing the gypsies and collecting them in groups of twos or threes, dozens of spears pointed at each tiny bunch.

Clopin pulled his hand away from his eyes when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Frollo had climbed up on the stage to stand next to him, either just to pick on him or to get a good view of ruining as many people's lives as he could find. Clopin turned his gaze from the minister to the court. People tried to avoid polearms while reaching out for relatives. Children sobbed for their parents. Many others tried to use their own weapons against the soldiers despite being outnumbered.

"Arrest everyone who resists, ignore all the others," Frollo commanded.

A woman shrieked as her husband was stabbed and tossed to the side by a soldier retaliating for being struck in the arm with a cutlass. She was dragged away along with the rest of the resisting faction, the toddler she held pulled out of her arms and dropped on the ground.

Clopin wanted to go for his dagger right then and there. He was close enough and Frollo was alone and distracted. He could finally kill the man and it would take less than a second. His people would love him for it. They'd forget that he sent two thousand people to die even though they didn't deserve to live in the first place. But he didn't. His shoulders just sagged and he knew God was teasing him right then and there. It had nothing to do with Esmeralda or Gaetane or Giselle or anyone else. He just felt too weak to do it. He would have done it regardless of anything else. If there were soldiers, if Frollo were looking right at him, if everyone would hate him, he'd still jump at the chance to kill him just because of how he felt at the moment, but that was also what held him back.

Clopin was barely conscious of Frollo gesturing to the rest of his soldiers or when they pulled their polearms away and backed away, letting gypsy families reunite and allowing people to pick up things that had been knocked down or trampled.

"In two weeks I am holding my wedding feast, and you're invited," Frollo said flatly as he left. "Your lover and your child will be there and I do think you'd want to see them after this. But no puppets, Gaetan does not like them. And don't go telling stories about me."

Clopin weakly stood and watched as the minister strolled out into the tunnel he'd come from and disappeared from sight. This was the part he'd truly been dreading. He was thankful there was no bloodbath instigated by either side and Frollo had kept his word about returning Giselle and Prince so far. But now he had to face his people. He had saved them from Frollo, he had saved them from the others, but looking at them now, his worst fears, worse than all their deaths, was suddenly not just real, but a tangible force trying to strangle him. Every single remaining person looked at him with the frightened feeling of betrayal. There was no denying what had happened and there was no way to talk his way out of it and everyone knew it. They didn't want anything from him, no apology, no explanation, no promise of safety from then on, not even self-punishment. They just wondered what he would do next. He was their leader and they'd trusted him and they'd never looked to anyone else but him, so it was all they knew to do now.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I… I quit."


	32. Part of Your World

Esmeralda had given up on fairytales for the day after Gaetan's story. That left her with nothing else to do but watch Gaetan seduce Djali away.

He was coming back, Esmeralda knew it. Gaetan knew it. Even Djali knew it. But for some reason, all three of them waited under a heavy pall of anticipation. He had warned Gaetan he might not come back and she dutifully waited to hear news of him either way. She held on to some of his precious things for him, held them away from Esmeralda, whom he had given no instructions and no warnings to. Apparently she was a thing too, and not one of his more precious ones. Like his laundry, she was something he didn't feel was at risk of disappearing along with him.

Instead of feeling offended as she had at being abandoned at the tailor's or when he'd told her he preferred Gaetan over her, she felt worried and she didn't know why. Something was eating away at the pit of her stomach and it made no sense because there was no reason he wouldn't return. Clopin wouldn't trick Frollo if Giselle and Prince and she were at stake. He wouldn't send two thousand innocent people to the gallows along with two thousand guilty ones if he could help it. Frollo would keep his word, he had to or he'd not only be allowing the gypsies to attack him and Gaetan, but he'd be inviting them to. He was coming back. So why did she stare out the window as intently as Gaetan?

Finally, in the early afternoon, the door to the house opened. Both women turned and saw Frollo wander into the house as if nothing had happened, all his precautions had been mere protocol to follow, no matter how silly they were obviously going to turn out to be.

"You're alive!" Esmeralda exclaimed, running up to him and hugging him.

"Yes, I can survive until tomorrow. Now get off me!" he said, snarling and angrily shoving her away. It was Saturday tomorrow and he'd promised her Saturdays. As much as he liked to have an honest conversation now and then, he wanted to go back to being able to lie and twist words like braiding leather for a whip and to use them as one against people. Why did he have to keep his word all the time now?

"But I just wanted—"

"Yes, I'll buy you a horse, stop talking, would you? Here, put all that away."

Gaetan had silently walked up to him and now shoved the bag and Djali into Esmeralda's arms. He no longer needed a contingency plan in case anything went awry as he wandered into the Court of Miracles and now he no longer cared.

"It must have been—" Esmeralda tried for the third time.

"Yes, it smelled. Goodbye," Frollo said curtly and he and Gaetan left.

………………

The rosary Claude had given Esmeralda almost a month ago in a bouquet of weeds Gaetan gave to her had once belonged to his father. The man barely remembered he had it and he remembered the prayers that went with each bead less than that. His father felt knowing the whereabouts of his shoes were more important than knowing where the rosary was or what was happening to it. The man was religious and devout, but he just didn't care about a set of beads when he had a giant Cathedral and there he could ask for help on the prayers or choose which one he felt like saying. There was no nostalgia in the thing and it had been lost under the bed for seven years starting two years prior to his father's death. Claude had found it chasing after a rat.

The rosary that had found its way into the center of a few arguments, however, had belonged to his mother, who had been taught the prayers for each bead when she was five and had prayed on it weekly until his father died, at least once daily after that.

The first had been made of wood and was simple and had been slightly aromatic in its old days while the other was made of metal with differently colored beads of glass. Only the very skilled at swindling could have made much money from selling it. Claude had not trusted it as one of his many precious things for Gaetan to guard in case of his death at the hands of thousands of gypsies. The rosary had not been in the plan at all. Claude had grabbed it in frantic haste when he awoke and had swiftly run through the prayers in his mind, hoping the meditation would calm him down, but instead he forgot he put it on his wrist seconds later and had left the house with it.

He kept it close most of the day, holding it tightly when he thought of the very person that had given him the idea to confide in it in the first place: Esmeralda. He couldn't remember which prayer went with which bead and in fact couldn't remember how to say them, his mind was too tangled up in hating himself and her.

God was not available right now. He may have made the entire cosmos in six days, but he'd learned his lesson since then. God took his time fixing things, and they still never turned out right. Solve one problem and the angels you left to watch the earth have suddenly started breeding with humans the next time you turn around so you have to make a giant flood and still no one's happy. God wondered why, if humans had eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, why were they still so stupid?

Spurned on by nothing other than the fact that Claude couldn't remember the third prayer, was sure he was on the fourth bead somehow, and knew he'd screwed up the first two, he suddenly yelled at Captain Phoebus as he passed by with Gaetan when the three rode their horses and met at an intersection. "Next time, you're marrying her!" Claude yelled.

There was a loud metallic snap that only Phoebus bothered to both notice and point out. "What was that sir?"

Frollo looked around, only conscious of the noise after Phoebus had pointed it out. After looking about his person, Frollo turned his hand over and opened it from pointing it at Phoebus a few seconds ago. The smashed and mangled rosary had broken in half, the two pieces digging into the minister's hand, which was painted bright red. The string of beads was wrapped around his wrist and pinned into his flesh by part of the cross. All he managed was a 'huh' in a very bored tone of 'oh, there it is,' indicating if Phoebus hadn't spoken up, he'd never have noticed a giant red puddle trailing after him and spreading all over his gown before passing out.

Frollo rode off in the direction of the hospice and Phoebus shook his head. All the trouble that man caused and all he needed was to break something to be sedated. He was just a kid who needed some blocks to stack up and knock over to keep from throwing tantrums.

"Do I want to know?" Phoebus asked, turning back to Geatan, only to find no one there, save for a boy herding stubborn geese across the street. "How does someone do that on a horse?"

Achilles shook his head.

……………….

Clopin figured there was nothing left to do for the day but sulk in his cart. He knew exactly how Esmeralda must feel, saving people by walking out on them and knowing all they thought of you was 'good riddance.' Now he couldn't even count on her as a friend.

He looked up immediately as he heard hoofbeats. Just his luck, another horse.

The horse trotted in front of his cart, a few feet away, and stopped. Considering the rider and the looks the horse was giving him, he wasn't really relieved. He noticed not only had Gaetane dressed in clothes reminiscent of Frollo, but had her hair cut to resemble him as well.

"Am I a gypsy?" Gaetane asked.

"Huh?" Clopin replied.

"You're one and you married my mother," she said. "Does that make me one?"

"Of course not! Kind of. Maybe," he said. "Who gave you an idea like that?"

"Esmeralda," she answered.

"Okay, story time," he said. He held up his puppets and looked at them, then tossed them behind him.

Gaetane tied Abra up to a post a safe distance away and turned to watch him.

"You can come closer, it's just me," he said. Just some guy who'd beat someone with a chair and didn't care if they died in the process. Just some guy who'd killed a couple of people for being too rowdy in a fight or for just pissing him off too much. Just someone who took charge of hanging anyone purely for wandering around in the sewers and catacombs and enjoyed every minute of it.

Gaetane considered the distance between her and the cart and walked closer, but stopped a few feet away.

"The puppets aren't that scary, are they?" he asked. "Okay, never mind, let me see if I can explain this to you. Family is very important for gypsies. They help you and protect you, but you follow the rules so you don't get kicked out."

"But I already kicked myself out," Gaetane protested.

"You can't do that! Well, you can, but Giselle and I voted you back in… Not like it matters anyway. You're just going back to him." Clopin sighed. "Okay, if things went totally differently, you'd be with me and Giselle and Prince and you'd be in our little club and following our rules… Actually, if things went totally differently, you'd probably have run off anyway and you'd be throwing rocks at someone. Did I make any sense at all?"

"Did you kick Esmeralda out?" Gaetan asked.

"If this is an interrogation, kid, you've got a long way to… you're pretty bad at it," Clopin said. "Others probably did, but I still like Esmeralda, it's him I can't stand."

Gaetane just stared, unappreciative.

"He's not nice!" Clopin argued.

Gaetan glared harder and crossed her arms.

Clopin realized the full extent of Gaetane's silent argument.

"I'm not good at any of this, am I?" he asked.

"No."

"Did I explain anything to you?" he asked. Couldn't he do anything right? How did he fail so badly at being a gypsy, something he was born as? How did he never figure out how badly he was doing until now?

"No."

"Let's try this then," he said. "You tell me what's going on and I'll help you with the details."

"You're a gypsy," Gaetane said. Was this going to be like explaining flowers to Frollo?

"Last I checked," Clopin said.

"You married my mother," Gaetane said, happy that she'd gotten this far without any snags.

"I certainly did."

"So what's that make me?" Simplest equation, one plus one. All she needed was an explanation of two.

"From where I stand, a boy who needs to brush his hair," Clopin said as if that was that and there was nothing more to it.

"That's not a good answer!" she exclaimed.

"Kid, I wave dolls around and kill people for a living and I lost the last job because I was too depressing," Clopin said. "If you want answers, go find someone with books."

"I don't want to be a gypsy," Gaetane said bitterly, as if she'd lost a fight.

"Then don't be," Clopin answered. "I'm sure he'd hate it if you were."

"But you're a gypsy!" she complained. It was her only argument, but it sounded so much more effective when Esmeralda said it. That woman really was good at tricking people.

"I'm a lousy one," he retorted. "I hang out with you people all the time, I married a foreigner who doesn't want to cover her hair properly, I still like Esmeralda, but I'm not going to like her husband ever and no argument or face from you is going to change that. …I just hope she's okay at least."

"He yells at her now and then," Gaetane said, trying to help. Apparently nice gypsies were nice people because they were bad at being gypsies. "Mostly he wants to ignore her."

"Well, that's something I can live with," Clopin muttered. The yelling wasn't that bad either. That man yelled at walls.

"Do you love my mother?" Gaetan asked.

"Of course I do, what kind of question is that?" Clopin answered. The question was abrupt and out of the blue. "I thought you'd be smarter if you worked for Frollo."

"You'll take care of her when she's out of jail, then?" she asked.

Clopin noticed she said 'when' and not 'if.' Either Frollo had told her a lot more or a lot less about what was going on. It might not actually be a good sign, but he was going to take what he could get. "I'll try," he answered. "I obviously haven't been very good at taking care of anyone, but I try. That's still worth something, isn't it?"

"I tried," she answered, reaching towards her belt.

"She was worried about you ever since you left," he said. "Was it worth it?"

"Yes," she replied. She dropped a heavy bag on the ledge of the puppet stand and turned to leave. "Take good care of her," she said as she walked to her horse.

Clopin opened the bag. It was obviously filled with money from the sound it made as it landed on the wood, but upon inspection, if was more than he'd ever dreamed of. There was more money than he'd ever made in a year in the bag. There was more than enough to buy three whole cows with. If he wanted, he might even be able to rent a small farm for a few months with that amount of cash. Where in the world did she get this much money—oh, right. Clopin was almost moved to buy the minister a new table to keep more notes about how much he was owed on. Almost.

"You want me to paint a smile on the puppet like I promised?" he called out as she mounted the horse.

"I hate puppets," she replied before riding off.

"Wouldn't look right anyway," Clopin said to himself.

………

"Jacques, I don't want to hear anything you have to say about this; I just want some bandages," Claude said angrily, gracelessly throwing the door to the hospice open. 'Maybe some soap,' he thought to himself. 'and probably some pliers.'

"Am I allowed to ask what happened?" Jacques said, setting Appolonia down on a cot and walking over to Frollo. The hospice had been quiet and empty. Rumors had gone about the entire city despite the fact that most people had stayed at home and had even reached the hospice, when usually they barely managed to die in front of the door. Frollo had gone out to arrest half the gypsies, finally having found out where they were hiding all this time. Some said he'd kill them all. Some said they'd finally get him, and even his apprentice. No one wanted to be about when whatever was going down went down. Even knowing all of this, Jacques was surprised at Frollo's mood. The minister had never been mad at him since their debate on ethics decades ago.

Frollo held up his hand, the rosary still embedded in it. He hadn't wanted to pull it out in case a piece broke off and buried itself in his hand, and he didn't want to have to explain why he was carrying a smashed cross covered in blood around.

"Can I ask you not to pet my cat with that hand?" Jacques asked, looking at the wound worriedly before he left to the backroom for supplies.

Claude looked at his hand. Half of the wound had healed over in a sticky substance that had solidified around the pieces. The rest was still bleeding, though slower now, more of a puddle than a stream. God cared a lot as to what people did in the bedroom—or on the hallway floor—but apparently he didn't want to hear any complaining about it. Why couldn't God just write that part down along with all the other complicated things he wanted?

He gave up on being angry. It wasn't working and he had no idea what to be angry at. He didn't hate Esmeralda, Phoebus was doing his job, he'd asserted himself as being in charge of the city and its safety, Gaetan was again a trusty hound at his beck and call. He could never hate God, that was blasphemous and he would never diminish the name of The Lord. He could hate himself for falling in love with her and not seeing that it was obvious that she'd hate him or that it was a cruel trick all along. He did, but mostly he hated his promise and the fact that tomorrow was Saturday.

Frollo just stood close to the door as Jacques cleaned the wound and bandaged it. He didn't even react when Jacques threw the ruined rosary in the trash. "I knew you were going to stab someone today, I just didn't think it'd be yourself," Jacques said, not even trying to be funny.

"I think I'm starting to envy you," Claude muttered. Jacques had never liked anyone very seriously and he couldn't do anything about it but annoy people if he did.

"If you want to mope go somewhere else," Jacques said. "I'm not a silly woman to tell your problems to. Go kill someone if you're not feeling well."

"I never wanted to talk about it," Claude said grumpily. "I was making a statement."

"Well, I'm not having a pathetic contest, now get out and go hurt someone else, like you're supposed to."


	33. A Step in the Right Direction

Everyone did their best to settle into a stifled, uncomfortable, yet mildly relieving routine. Phoebus figured the worst was over with and even though he didn't like Frollo in the least, he didn't have to clean up after the man was murdered in the Court of Miracles and now that Frollo had other people to make miserable, he'd all but disappeared. Jacques wasn't making anymore surprise 'rescues,' Esmeralda was nowhere to be seen—there were still complaints of her, but all they amounted to were the fact that she existed near people—and Gaetan had even started a pleasant—though rocky due to having picked up a distaste of anything pagan from Frollo—conversation about the name of his horse. He could get used to a total lack of disasters and conversations that might be awkward but he didn't have to anticipate when they'd blow up in his face.

Frollo's hand had begun to hurt shortly after he left Jacques' and was now just embarrassed, but refused to admit it to any of the females in the household, even the goat. If he had at least thought about which hand he had the rosary on, it could have exploded and probably have been more convenient. He had stabbed his right hand, the one he'd used for writing and grasping everything from forks to daggers to execution warrants. He could do barely anything and had to either postpone everything or pretend not to rely on Gaetan to do it. She took on duties without a word, but he had to change his plans to leaving the gypsies in jail to rot, argue, and break down before he could deal with them, for she knew nothing of such things and couldn't scare the goat off the chair. His hand gave him one advantage: the needed lessons shunned Esmeralda, despite her feigned pity over the bandages. He could get used to occupying his time with making his apprentice more efficient and better honed and never having to admit anything was even the slightest bit wrong.

Gaetan had happily settled back into a Paris she could be sure didn't have someone waiting to drag her off her horse to discuss with his buddies the worst things to do with her. She was proud she wasn't a gypsy and that she was a boy, but disappointed Frollo had forgotten how old she was and at first presumed she was nine and too old to know about torturing people before deciding it was a wonderful idea to teach her about it. She was happy that Phoebus didn't think she was practically three anymore. She felt ashamed at having no idea what Frollo was talking and wished he hadn't stabbed his hand so he could draw her a picture. She felt happy that Djali wanted to sit in her lap. She felt unhappy when Esmeralda, whom Gaetan and Frollo were going to great lengths to ignore, grabbed her goat and went to pout in the corner and tried to flaunt the fact that Gaetan couldn't hold it anymore. She could get used to respect, confusing lessons, and pretending Esmeralda didn't exist.

Esmeralda had tried to start changing people's idea of her by asking how Claude had hurt his hand and asking if there was something she could do to make it better, but she was shoved away and so ignored at the dinner table she took her traitor goat back and waited to see if she did her best to make everyone feel obliged to pay attention to her, but it only worked on the goat. Seeing her plan wasn't working and never would, she sat down in the corner and watched the two, waiting for an opportunity for someone to acknowledge her. At last, Frollo sent Gaetan to wash up and again decided to review one of his boring books without stories. Esmeralda shoved Djali onto his lap, but Claude shoved the goat off when it tried to eat the pages. When Gaetan was done, he put his book away and went to use the washroom. Esmeralda had one chance left and she was not going to let him pretend nothing happened. She stood outside the door and waited for him to come out, fully clothed as was his strange habit. "Tomorrow is Saturday, don't forget," she said. He tried to say something, probably a protest or to tell her to get out of his way, but she cut him off. "Drop Gaetan at the Cathedral and come right back. I'll be waiting," she said, stepping out of his way. He agreed and went to bed. She could get used to throwing her weight around and insisting on presents.

…………………..

Despite his memory not caring enough to hold onto the information of Gaetan's actual age, he wished she was younger. She said nothing as he took her to the Cathedral, having insisted on going with her, but it was obvious this was the equivalent of 'Go sleep under the table, I'm busy tonight,' from her mother.

He pushed her gently through the open doors and closed them on her. He slowly walked down the steps, pausing to turn back to the Cathedral. He stared up at the Portal to the Last Judgement. Twenty years ago he had seen movement in the eyes of all the hallowed saints above the Portal to the Virgin. Hundreds of eyes had stared down at him while Mary and her holy child threatened him, condemning him for what they had witnessed him trying to do in a misguided attempt to save his soul from the damning influence of a demon. Now he stared up to that child and his own, both grown and both judging him. Both had warned him of his eternal pain, one flesh and blood and had paid in blood to keep to the obedience and honor he was bound to, the other carved in stone and showing him what lay ahead if he broke his promise and diminished his duties to his holy sacrament and the name of the Holy Father's who had given them to him in the disguise as a gift.

Both forsaken children looked down upon him, outshone him and cursed how he tried to hide his darkness in their shadow. Quasimodo faithfully walked into death itself, fought what he saw as the devil himself to wrestle Gaetan away and his worry was having failed to save her with his own hands to please his father. Now Frollo had a different duty to a different father to go to and he was hesitating, waiting, asking for mercy and exception that not even saints would be granted. God was not a father of kindness. He beat you continuously and still you turned to him, weeping from the wounds and accepted them as even they were too much for you to ever deserve.

His gaze moved up to scan the gallery of famous kings of Judah and Israel briefly. He knew each and every one of them. Each one of them, in love or without, even in hate, had followed God's command and never thought to turn their back on such promises. What did God care for love, anyway? God threw wrath down upon sinners demanded he was followed by unleashing similar fire and lightning at the chosen as on the damned. God was salvation, not affection. Jesus never knew love and never needed it. The best he ever did concerning a marriage was help the guests get drunk. Mary was as loving as the stone statues that, no matter how well carved, were envious of the true piety only a virgin such as her could express. She was devout, she was faithful, and she wept at the death of her son. But she and her husband? Nothing more than a mystery whose answer he did not know and should not want to.

He was sent away again, this time never having to ask what was asked of him to return to the crowd of souls saved by Christ. He had to go back. He had to keep his promise. He could not deny his duties to his wife and God. As he walked home, he wondered why he felt so abandoned not just by one, but by both. He had never abandoned either, why did they turn their backs on him and yet still force him into this?

Geatan was right. Any gypsy to save someone from unwanted advances was a good soul indeed, heathen or otherwise. Why couldn't he have married one of them, even if she was a Catholic?

………………..

Claude opened the door tentatively. Esmeralda was not in the hall and he heaved a sigh as he opened the door fully. He wandered inside and closed the door, wondering what to do. He contemplated going back out the door and not returning until late at night with Gaetan, but as he remembered the cathedral, he knew that was exactly where she'd go to complain to the archdeacon and anyone else who happened to be within earshot. How did he get trapped in his house by a single gypsy?

Well, there was one place in his house he could still be safe. He went into the bedroom and found someone else had decided to occupy a seat on it already. Djali was curled up on the mattress, the blankets shuffled in a messy spiral from her movements as she had adjusted herself into the most comfortable position.

"You can't be on the bed," Claude said, picking up the goat, who complained softly as she was disturbed from the best slumber she ever had. "You have fleas and other bugs and shouldn't be where people sleep." He sat down and held the goat by her forelegs, her face in front of his. Her fur was soft and downy like the tiny feathers in his expensive mattress and she smelled of his expensive soap. She had used his soap to wash her goat now. He meant nothing to her, of course his things meant nothing to her.

"I wish I were a goat," he said, brushing his free fingers over the goat's shoulder. She wouldn't hate him then. He could be with her forever, say what he liked, fight with anyone or anything he felt would take her away and she'd never lie to him. She'd never torture a poor little goat. She'd love everything he did for her, no matter what, because it was all for her and she'd think it was sweet not matter his motivations or misunderstandings. Why, she'd be elated if he could just spell her name. He'd never have to sacrifice anything he didn't want to for her. Life would truly be perfect if he were a goat.

Claude didn't know how much Djali understood. She could have read him perfectly or just felt sympathy and had no idea what his real problem was, or maybe she wanted the salt on his face. The why didn't matter so much as the what, for once Djali licked his face he pressed it close and began to cry into her fur.

He had forgotten to close the door behind him and gave himself away entirely to Esmeralda, who'd gone in search of him the minute she left the washroom. He couldn't hear her footsteps, but he heard her speak perfectly clearly. "Claude?"

"No," he said, still crying into her goat. Couldn't she leave him to his embarrassment in silence? Did she have to hunt him down to torment him immediately? "Just go away."

She was too quiet for him to hear as she made her way to the bed. He regretted never being fast enough to avoid her, but figured it made no difference. She was suddenly sitting next to him and pulling his head away from Djali and to her shoulder. His hands slid away from the goat and he didn't know where it went after that.

He felt wretched for not seeing the obvious. Of course it was all a trick. Of course it was all lies; how could he have deluded himself into ever thinking otherwise? She never liked him. She never liked anything he gave her. She was never interested in marriage. She never even wanted to save his life, just her own. She hated him. She had lied at the wedding. She had lied about leaving him alone. She had probably even lied about preventing children.

She was some sort of raging storm, striking him from all sides, breaking everything he had and smashing it to pieces one by one and giving him no chance to flee for safety or to rebuild. He'd learned there was only one thing to do when she became so overwhelming and that was to submit to every push, every strike, every whim until he learned precisely what she wanted in exchange for a promise that he'd survive to see the winds abated and the seas become tranquil again. But that was impossible now. Those promises had all been lies. There was no happiness now. There was nothing but the feeling of being smothered, crushed, and overtaken over and over again.

He had no idea why he was feeling this way over something that was merely physical. He had suffered through lust, he had only once succumbed to the desire for self-abuse and had paid penance, and he had never thought his wedding night or any other times with his wife would be special, but he hated the prospect of doing such things with her now that she hated him in his entirety.

He'd been stabbed, shot at, struck with both real and improvised weapons, and numerous people had tried at different times to take off his head or arms and once his foot. Esmeralda had never hurt him, and yet he wanted to be able to refuse.

He took no comfort in sobbing on her shoulder. What he really wanted to do was to have some reason to strike her. He'd have a real outlet for his emotions and finally be able to deal with them and get rid of them. She'd yell at him to stop and when he did, she'd finally be happy about something he did for her. But no, he'd gotten himself stuck in a situation where he couldn't lash out at what made him mad or upset and now he was reduced to behaving like a woman. Soon he'd be crying over mice.

Realizing this, he fought back the disgraceful tears. He held his arms close to his chest, away from her and she had failed to pull him closer to where she was sitting. He leaned away from her shoulder and was slightly consoled that there was a small space between them that the goat had taken up after he'd dropped it. "I'm sorry, that was unbecoming of me," he said. He wondered if he should wipe his face, but decided not to. He was already 'mean and ugly and evil,' cleaning up wasn't going to change that. He was acting abominably, like a criminal before they were to be hanged. Even if he were about to die, he should show better character. "We should go into the other room," he said, started to rise from the bed.

"No," she said softly, pushing him back down by the shoulder.

"But… not on the bed," he said. No doubt she'd break that rule happily. She'd already let the goat in and held no respect at all for him or his things.

"We're not going to," she said, adjusting his hat, which had been pushed around and abused in his fit of seemingly disrespectful emotion.

Now he felt even more like he'd been thrown in the garbage. She had screamed at him, insulted him to his face, sat by and smiled as he tried to futilely find some solace in being hated, forced him to keep a promise he made to her to keep her happy and then tossed it back after watching him humiliate himself. "But you asked!" he exclaimed. "I made a promise purely for your happiness and you agreed to it! You demanded it yesterday!"

"But you're not happy," she said, pressing down hard on his shoulder. He wasn't going anywhere until this disaster was at least patched over, if not actually fixed.

He misinterpreted the gesture, taking it the same way he'd meant for Gaetan to take it when he did the same. She'd listen to him and believe exactly what he said and do exactly what he wanted and would be rewarded if she did, but punished if she didn't. "We both know that's impossible," he said. He wanted to get this over with and go riding and look for someone to punch in the face. "You hate me."

"I don't hate you," she said, feeling somewhat ashamed. That part was her fault and she was ready to admit it to herself and to him.

"Well, that is technically an improvement," he said. Now he could pretend she liked him. He could sublimate one pointless act physically for being loved emotionally. But he didn't feel like pretending at the moment.

Esmeralda used his confusion and indecision to stall for time. She could easily solve this, but she wondered if she wanted to or if it would really work. She didn't know if she loved him and she had to think. She had to think of him as a person and not as a magical way to get presents. Or maybe she didn't, but she didn't know if one could love a toy. But that was the key to her little wind up bauble and using anything else broke him and misaligned the pieces and nothing fun ever happened. He worked perfectly under the influence of thinking she liked him and that she'd still like him, maybe even more than before.

She knew she didn't want anyone else taking his full attention from her, not by dancing or talking or crying or even trying to kill was her toy to play with and no one else's. No one had the right to take him away. No one else had the right to play with him the way she did. They couldn't leave him pleasantly alone on a shelf to be safely ignored, they couldn't put him and the key in separate but adjacent pockets and take them both wherever they went, and they couldn't play with him or break him. She had only one true bit of witchcraft she was able to do and that was to summon the key and turn him into more than a bunch of springs aimed at her and pile of cogs spinning in place, trying futilely to get away from her. She mentally shrugged. That was as close as she'd ever get to knowing whether the words out of her mouth were true or not. "I love you."

He looked at her and forced himself not to roll his eyes. This was like being dragged up to the gibbet and then the executioner tried to crack a joke that they decided to give him cake instead and was waiting for him to say 'really, that's great.' Was she trying to tell him she thought he was stupid, or had she just come up with a moronic plan while she was already enacting a brilliant one?

"I'm not lying," she said, trying to defend herself. What was the point of thinking really hard about stuff like this if he wasn't going to believe her? It wasn't like she was saying the earth went around the sun; she was actually saying something true. "It's not a trick or anything!" She didn't know where, but somewhere in the past, she'd ruined her chances of him trusting her entirely, maybe at all.

Claude didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to believe. Seemingly, the storm had passed and he'd made it to a safe harbor. Even if this new clear weather was real, his metaphorical boat was a mess; the paint was all but missing, the mast had toppled, planks needed to be replaced, it was barely seaworthy, and someone had gotten sick all over the figurehead of the analogy.

"So…?" he started, not being able to finish. This was all well and good and might even turn out to be great sometime in the future, but what did any of this have to do with them in the other room? She hadn't cared what he thought before or even the time she tried to before they were married. To his knowledge, she did all the work, she just needed him the way someone drives a wagon. Sure, you need to make sure it has all its part in the right place, but no one ever needs to cheer up a wagon.

"Not today, you're obviously not in the mood," she said, taking her hand off his shoulder. She didn't know this was possible with men.

"What mood?" he asked. "I'm already confused." Now he was even more confused.

"I think you're a bit more confused than you know," she said. She hadn't taught him anything she'd intended, not about love, not about gypsies, not even about being happy. How in the world did she not only fail but fail so badly?

"I'm confused about being confused?" he asked. This was confusing.

"I think we need to have a little talk."

"About?" His head was starting to hurt.

………………….

"You look… different," Quasimodo said, trying to greet Gaetan at the top of the stairs. He almost wanted to address Gaetan's grumpy mood, but decided against it at the last second. On second thought, it was a bad idea, especially if she was being raised to be like his father, on third thought, he stepped away from her and hoped she didn't notice.

"Huh?" she asked, distracted from her glowering by his comment. She looked down and realized how new her armor was. "Right. I bought this recently. I… feel… better in it."

"I can repaint the doll if this is a permanent thing," Quasimodo said.

Gaetan shrugged. She wanted distractions and paint wasn't a very good one.

"It's not Sunday," he said. "If you don't want to be here with me, you can just leave." He would be disappointed, but he was used to being on people's top ten list of things they'd rather not be doing.

"There's a new schedule now that he's married," she said. "They're… busy."

Quasimodo tried to understand what she was hinting at and by his expression, he wasn't having any success. "Busy doing what?"

"Wow," she muttered. Just when Frollo had forgotten about telling her to talk to this kind of stuff to Phoebus, she now had to explain it to Quasimodo, and she'd walked right into the situation, making it her own fault.

"You've never been upset when he's been busy before. You've been his apprentice for months," Quasimodo said, shrugging. He didn't see any problem yet. "Besides, shouldn't he be busy after arresting so many people?"

"Not that kind of busy," Gaetan said, slapping her forehead. "He and Esmeralda… It's kinda like when my mother was busy."

"Knitting?" Quasimodo asked, even more confused.

"Um, no…" Gaetan said. She didn't know if she wanted to laugh or to cry. What made things worse was that she had heard that used as a euphemism before. "My mom… works at the Val d'Amor, the brothel."

"Oh," Quasimodo said, still confused. Very slowly, pieces of the puzzle put themselves together to form a bigger picture. "Wait…"

"Don't hurt yourself," she said.

"I think I just did," Quasimodo said, one hand on the side of his head.

"How do you think I feel?" she asked.

"No offense, I don't want to even think about that," he said, shaking his head as if the fling the nasty image away by doing so.

"None taken," Gaetan said. "Finally, someone not concerned about—"

"Your mother is a prostitute?" Quasimodo asked.

Gaetan's shoulders sagged. "At the moment, she's in jail, so that makes her a criminal, not a prostitute."

"Your father allows this?" he asked.

"That's how he met her," Gaetan said. She realized the most he knew about her mother came from overhearing a conversation with Frollo. "They were never married. He left when she was pregnant with me."

"And then what?" he asked.

"And then she had me and she was a lot poorer than she was before," Gaetan said. "Actually, she tried to drown me in a well, and then tired to give me up to the orphanage and about thirteen years later I ran away when she was pregnant again and someone got a silly idea of me being an apprentice because I nearly killed their horse."

"I'm not sure I understand the last bit," Quasimodo said.

"I haven't for a long time," Gaetan said, shrugging. "Don't worry about that."


	34. Honor to Us All

Claude never had any luck or skill—whichever one was required—with pretending around women

Gaetan had been retrieved in the evening and was told that Saturday meetings were canceled, though not about why. Frollo considered her too smart about the subject in the first place, though he was grateful that she was the one person who did not express their thoughts about him and private matters out loud.

Claude felt better with the 'appointments' cancelled, now that he knew he was free to do so. He had told Esmeralda he wasn't interested and wouldn't be for a while, but it seemed his request hardly had any affect.

Esmeralda thought he was confused and continued to try and coax him to her wiles, and thought he was throwing some sort of tantrum—something she thought only she was allowed to do—by shoving her away and stopping all her advances. She did not understand that he felt she always became too physical, too domineering, and too demanding soon after one of them tried to make an innocent gesture.

He tried to sway Esmeralda to give him some sort of innocuous appreciation, he brought her flowers—more weeds—or petted Djali. At first she was happy, squealing in her silly girly way that he did not know why he put up with, but somehow liked, but her hands were on him soon, pressing too hard and straying to the wrong places. This resulted in him shoving the flowers or the goat at her and ignored her for the rest of the night.

Her attempts at convincing him to come back into the bedroom, or at least consider the prospect, were met with him shoving her away and focusing his attention on something else, Gaetan or a book.

They were both too busy either trying to convince the other to be happy with something they apparently didn't want, or trying to make the other jealous, they did not notice that Gaetan had moved back into the hall to sleep or that the goat had gone back to the alley.

At the very core of the problem, Claude was confused. He knew exactly what he wanted and everything about it confused him. Esmeralda had said she loved him, but every hint she gave him indicated she wanted the apprentice to go away and leave them to have the hallway floor all to themselves. Before she was wiling to throw any random feeling at him, delight, boredom, contempt, hatred, amusement, and all that made him cautious, but she had told him she wasn't lying to him… he had not idea whether he could trust her or not. She had told him he had a say in whether or not they were ever on the floor again, but she kept trying to tell him that it was what she wanted and she didn't want to be refused.

In the very beginning, he'd probably have killed for the opportunity, especially to stay in the good graces of the Lord, but now he was feeling something completely alien to him and he did not know how to handle an even newer, stranger desire than before. He wasn't to be treated like a human being, something he himself didn't even think he was. How in the world was he going to convince someone else to treat him like one?

………………..

Gaetan only managed to be a distraction for short periods of time, with long intervals in between. Usually this involved rocks and someone's head, but those times were often very fun—at least for her. But this time was not fun for anyone and involved no rocks or anyone's head.

Eating meat constantly, and always having food each day had definitely helped Gaetan develop the muscles to not just perform the complicated swordplay Frollo had taught her, but to hold the sword in the first place.

However, she was beginning to develop other things as well and they had nothing to do with Frollo's plans for her, which only involved cleaning, manners, and beating anyone he told her to.

Frollo was perfectly fine with her growing like a magic beanstalk if she'd just stay shaped like one. Gaetan's armor covered what the rest of her disguise no longer covered. Outside, she was still just his apprentice, if rather small and prone to bad hair and making rocks airborne. Inside, when the armor came off, parts of her were rounding out while others were rounding in.

Gaetan's troubles over changing gender were pushing the wedge between the two farther in the crack it had already started. Esmeralda grew jealous over Frollo staring at his apprentice—Gaetan had stolen the ability to distract Frollo by simply being there from her—and her attempts to distract him back blew up in her face. Claude looked at Gaetan the way one looks at one's cup and realizes what they initially thought was the handle was in fact a giant slug, which was now lying dead, hanging over the rim and dead from the fume of the drink, all the while dripping ooze into it.

"Grow up, not…" Frollo's angry complaint at Gaetan faded away and not only could he not some up with any words for what was happening, but he didn't want to know what they were. "You're not old enough to be doing this… are you?"

Gaetan froze in the middle of buckling her armor. Before, when it was only her and Frollo in the dark house, she could easily sidle into being ignored and let him talk to himself. Now, with Frollo using her as the best excuse to have nothing to do with Esmeralda unless he was sure she'd keep her distance, she was stuck in the conversation like blood in her hair after a fight.

"How old are you?" Frollo asked her.

Gaetan wished she didn't agree with Esmeralda about putting labels on people. "I'm still fourteen."

Frollo tried to think on that point and from the expression he got a second later, he realized it was a very nasty path for his train of thought to be on.

"Go ask Esmeralda if you're old enough to do any of that!"

"I want to throw rocks at someone," Gaetan grumbled.

"That's what Phoebus is for," Frollo said.

……………….

The saying goes 'if it's not broken, don't fix it.' The corollary, if there is one, goes—or should go—'if it's broken, sweep it under the rug and deny you ever had one.' Whether the quote existed did not concern Frollo in the least, but he took it to heart nonetheless. He was determined, after two fruitless days, if his marriage could not be fixed, he'd pretend it didn't exist. He was also determined that if he couldn't be treated like a human being at home and enjoy it, he'd be treated like a jerk in court and enjoy it. He'd forgotten the one skill he was best at and that was making everyone else more miserable than he was. Well, it was time he got back to it before he got rusty.

Frollo let the gypsies insult him and yell at him and everything short of actually touching him. He dodged spittle and sat quietly as they made up whatever excuse they thought might persuade him they had nothing to do with what happened to his apprentice and they were very, very, sorry and it would never happen again and was that a new hat? Frollo's mind left the courtroom and went wandering about, seeking answers to much more important questions. He paid only enough attention to dodge spittle or to pass sentence, but not enough to learn anyone's name. He'd ask someone to make a list of guilty people later.

The way Frollo saw it, he had two birds and one stone and he needed to figure out how to get them into a nice neat line and then hand the rock to his apprentice. Somehow he had to convince his wife he was a human being and his apprentice that she wasn't one. At first Gaetan had seemed perfect, just give her a weapon and point her in a direction and she'd take off on a horse and throw a few rocks and come back with a bloody criminal. Now, however, she had fallen in with the gypsies. If he did anything to her new family, that would just drive her away, but he couldn't just let this continue. The gypsies were getting into his head, so he head to get into there as well and chase them away, but without her noticing. That was a problem. She was smart enough to pick up on his plans to be helpful, but enough to be unhelpful as well. He had to show her where her loyalties were and make her think it was all her own free will, which was the cause of this whole mess in the first place.

He was going to have a good apprentice. It would she her, it would show Phoebus, and it would show that silly archdeacon finally. _Ultio mea est…_

Then suddenly, that was simply that. He had the answers for everything. He had the most obvious answers ever.

His mind hadn't quite returned to the courtroom, for the gypsy he was dealing with at the moment was still talking, but the bailiffs all backed away from him as they saw that familiar mischievous twinkle in his eye and the sinister, yet fun—to him only—loving smirk.

…………………..

"Are those the best clothes you have?" Frollo complained as Gaetan was buckling her armor.

Gaetan froze. This conversation seemed strangely familiar. "These are my only clothes," she said, resuming dressing herself. What hadn't been shredded months ago had been outgrown and what she had wasn't going to last the end of the month.

"Then brush your hair," Frollo ordered.

"I did," Gaetan said, trying to smooth down her short fluffy mane. "Three times. And Esmeralda did too."

"Don't get angry with me," Esmeralda said caustically. "I brushed Djali's hair and it stayed the way I put it."

Djali groaned from her position on the furniture, not wanting to be involved in the human's silly game. They made mating look too complicated and made all the other animals look bad when they just simply went at it. Humans should grow up and just butt heads if they're trying to claim a female.

"Maybe I should get her a hat," Frollo commented, trying to figure out how best to groom his apprentice without actually doing any work.

"Why? She has hair," Esmeralda scoffed.

"Today is the day my apprentice finally becomes a man. She should look presentable as one… even if she's a short one."

Every female in the room stopped what they were doing and stared at him. The buckles fell from Gaetan's hands.

"Metaphorically."

"Oh," they all answered, even the goat, whose response only coincidentally sounded like the others.

"You deserve something nice after this… if you get it right. Otherwise you're fired and I don't care anymore."

"But I don't want anything," Gaetan said, hinting she'd be happy if Frollo would shut up or at least explain what he was talking about. According to the soldiers, you weren't a man unless you gave them enough trouble to get yelled at by a superior officer for incompetence or were a superior officer who could yell at you for incompetence. She'd solved that problem, although it took more rocks and a few well-placed feet. Phoebus's version wavered between belching loud enough to be heard across the street and impressing a woman into taking her top off. It had proved impossible on the first part, for everything went up her nose and came out her nostrils or she didn't need to be impressed to take her own top off. Plus, she had a strange talent for making women giggle when she was polite to them. The problem was that none of those came near to qualifying as being a man in Frollo's opinion and she knew his version involved something deadly.

"You're just saying that because you were born poor, of course there are things you'd want. You probably didn't want a horse before, but now you got one. I'm sure you can figure out something else you want."

"You bought her a horse?" Esmeralda asked angrily.

"She fetches," Frollo said.

"She's not a dog," Esmeralda scolded.

"She's even better," Frollo said. "I think I will buy her a hat. And clothes to go with it for occasions like this.

"I wouldn't want that as a present," Esmeralda huffed, despite the fact that she was wearing a gable coif, one of several headdresses that had finally been made for her.

"I wouldn't buy you new clothes," Frollo commented. "You barely wear the ones you have."

………………………

Gaetan's instincts had been right. Frollo's idea of graduating into manhood did indeed require something deadly. People were gathering around the gallows already, proud and happy to have managed a place with a good view. Some people had even brought snacks.

She stood upon the _potence_, named for what it meant: power. The gallows was power. You were in charge of the whole world if you controlled who how close someone was to the noose. She was above everyone else but her master now. Everyone would know that she was the one who gave them such entertainment this day, but also remind them that she could send them here and entertain everyone else the next. Despite all this, despite the bright and cheery faces in the crowd, despite Frollo's hand on her shoulder that conveyed nothing but encouragement and possibly even pride, she felt smaller than she'd ever felt as a beggar and petty thief on the street.

If there was any time she wanted to throw a rock the most, it was now. She knew exactly what she was going to have to do. She had seen executions and due to her size, she'd heard far more. Before the execution, which was what everyone had gathered around for, someone read a writ aloud about the sentence the person faced. She was going to officially sentence someone to death.

Perhaps in another time she would have been worried about guilt. In some other far off, imaginary, fairytale time or place she might even have stood up for the man being dragged out of a cart and pulled onto the gibbet. But there were too many times she fell asleep on the street afraid of the courts herself. She'd spent her life watching people swing on a noose, either from their own struggles or just the wind. She stared at her own hand for a second, and realized it was a miracle she'd never been cut with a knife or branded for vagrancy. All she could think of, for a second, was how lucky she had been to avoid the judicial system and hoping it would stay that way if she could find someway to build up the courage to read the writ loud and clearly.

The condemned was a gypsy unsurprisingly. Gaetan did not recognize him. She doubted she would recognize most of the ones that had been arrested.

By now people were thinking this would be a really good show. There were comments now about wondering what would happen next and about how silly they thought Gaetan's new hat was.

A paper was shoved into Gaetan's hands from behind. She thought she heard Frollo tell her to face the people, but her mind was elsewhere. It wasn't him, but she remembered what had happened. He hadn't stopped anything. He'd been cheering. He'd sided with those who wanted her murdered. Gaetan wished, just once, to throw away all the propriety and manners she had learned just to be allowed to hit the man with something heavy and spit in his face.

The crowd gasped as the man spat at Gaetan, the glob hitting her new shoes. Frollo had really outdone himself putting this one together. It would be hard to top this execution.

But theatrics were what gypsies did best, and to him, the war wasn't over. He had the honor of being in the first battle. Frollo wouldn't win and neither would Clopin. "If only I knew your mother was that whore, it would have made all this so much easier. Your going to burn little apprentice."

Gaetan took a deep breath and held it, wondering what she was going to do. Then, suddenly, she knew. She was here, in fine clothes, even if they did include a silly hat now, alive and she held the proclamation of his death sentence and he was there, in the noose, and had none of those.

She turned to the audience, which had grown rather large by now. Many merchants who had shown up to take advantage of the crowd had abandoned their carts and boxes. Other apprentices had run out of shops to watch and masters had paused before beating them to see the spectacle themselves.

Gaetan unrolled the paper before her. She swallowed, wishing Frollo's hand writing wasn't so girly and superfluously fancy. She did not notice the crowd suddenly going silent as the edges of her mouth twitched in a smile. "The gypsy known as Aime Tetherman has been found guilty, as of May 30th, the year 1486 of Our Lord, of petty treason, conspiracy, kidnapping, attempted murder, torture, and vagrancy. The sentence is public flogging, followed by hanging by the neck until dead."

"Yes, well, you missed that part yesterday," Frollo mumbled behind her. Gaetan did not know if he was lying or not. She had been attending to Esmeralda all day yesterday and she was going to most of today as well.

She backed up as the trapdoor fell open and the crowd cheered as the man was slowly strangled to death. At that moment, Gaetan's and the criminals gaze fixed on each other and she felt there was nothing she could do to break the spell. "He was serious," she whispered behind her to Frollo. "He really wants me dead."

"You'll get used to it," Frollo said, putting his hand back on her shoulder. "You're mother will be fine, now go find Esmeralda before she makes trouble." He pulled her away, leading her down the steps of the gibbet, breaking her gaze from that of the man, still struggling on the noose.

…………

"Trouble in the lower levels of Hell I take it?" Clopin asked Esmeralda. She was the only person he felt had any right to be more miserable than he did. To top off all his problems, no one wanted to see a puppet show when there was a perfectly good execution going on. Executions were free and you only got to see this person die once. "He wouldn't buy that you had a headache?"

"He had his own headache," Esmeralda grumbled. If a tone of voice could kill, hers would melt cobblestones.

"See, he's doing your work for you," Clopin said cheerfully, hoping she would chime in with the same mood any minute now. "What is it with him and silly hats, though? What exactly is on your head?"

Esmeralda spun around from leaning against the cart and slammed Clopin against the back of it. "I don't want him to have a headache!"

"If that's the way you feel, I think your problem is that he's been drugging your food."

Esmeralda let out a bestial growl that echoed in the small puppet stand.

"Okay, fine, have it that way," Clopin said frantically. "Just don't give me any details."

Esmeralda pulled back and slumped on the ledge. "Did you ever wish your life would be like fairytale?" she asked, propping her head up with her fist under her cheek.

"Yes, I always thought that if I did enough housework some crazy lady would show up and give me a pretty dress so I could get married," Clopin said sarcastically. Why did all the women that came back from Frollo's house speak strange nonsense now? What was he doing with them? Were they all sniffing glue?

"I'm trying to be serious!"

"Can we go back one step and you try not to bite my head off?" Clopin asked. "It's not like men get much out of fairytales. All we can look forward to is fighting dragons. The best would be a giant beanstalk and I don't have a cow to afford it and Frollo would arrest me for making a mess of things before I got to any magic harps. Besides, the best thing to do with magic plants is to eat them. I have enough trouble getting food; I'm not throwing anything away."

"Why was it too much to ask to have a life like a fairytale?" Esmeralda said, sulking further.

"I think turning kids into birds is a pretty tall order," Clopin said, patting Esmeralda's shoulder. "I think asking him to have kids is pretty tall order even if they don't turn into birds."

"Whatever happened to true love, though?" Esmeralda asked.

"Oh, it got run over in the street and arrested for messing with traffic," Clopin said. "I thought you wanted to mentally torture him, not fall in love."

"That's not mental torture?" Esmeralda shot back.

"You have a point."

"Now it turns out that's not even how the story goes," Esmeralda said, going back to sulking. "The sorceress was a witch and she tricked the poor king and killed him after she turned the kids into ravens."

"Isn't that what you were trying to do in the first place?" Clopin asked. "If you keep changing your mind, no wonder your life doesn't work out."

"He wants to be romantic…" Esmeralda started, but this time was too confused to pull off sulk. "I think that's what he wants, he'd pretty confusing. I can't be romantic! I don't know what that's like."

"First off, I'm having a very hard time getting my mind around the concept of him having anything to do with romance… then again, he's the one with the headache. How should I know? I didn't even learn Giselle's name until the hangover went away and that was practically a week later!"

"I have no idea what I'm going to do," Esmeralda said, pouting.

"Well, try talking to that raven over there, maybe they can help," Clopin said, pointing over Esmeralda's shoulder.

Esmeralda turned around to see Gaetan. The girl had been given all sorts of new clothes, new shoes, a huge tunic and a baggy pair of trousers made specifically for not having to buy her more clothes for years to come, and a silly looking hat that looked like someone had wrapped a black curtain in their head in the dark. Gaetan was standing next to two horses, one reaching over to try and eat her hat, the other glaring malevolently at Clopin.

Gaetan walked over quietly and took her hat off and nodded at Esmeralda.

"What are you wearing?" Clopin yelled, snatching the chaperon away. "Here, now that's a hat," he said, putting his own on her head.

Gaetan just stood there as the sorry purple hat fell over her eyes and the feather flopped sadly.

"You'll grow into it," he said proudly. "This isn't a hat, it's a cat basket!" he said, waving her chaperon at her, despite the fact that she was essentially blind.

Esmeralda covered her mouth as she giggled.

"I know you don't want to be a gypsy, but there are alternatives to being someone who has headaches in bed! Your mother's never going to recognize you if you dress like an old man."

Gaetan pulled Clopin's hat off her head and shoved it into his hands as she took her hat back and adjusted it. "Keep an eye on her."

…………..

Esmeralda wondered what was wrong with her horse. Claude's horse had been regal, hers had a blank expression as it tried to eat everyone's hair, including it's own. Claude's horse had been friendly, though only to him. This horse couldn't tell her from food and rubbed up amiably against a post. Claude's horse had torn through the wilderness with grace and poise, the ride like flying in a dream. This horse was lumpy and bouncy and painful every time she slammed back down onto it's back from being thrown off slightly in the first place.

"Whoever said riding a horse was like sex should be killed," Esmeralda complained. "This is nowhere near as fun."

"I wonder why Captain Phoebus isn't married, then," Gaetan said.

"Don't knock it 'till you try it," Esmeralda said.

"The captain or master Frollo?" Gaetan asked, disgusted at the prospect of either. "How would you know about the captain?"

"About sex in general," Esmeralda said. "Or marriage for that matter."

"From what I heard, you're not that good at either," Gaetan said. "I think I should ask my mother instead."

"But she married a gypsy," Esmeralda said.

Gaetan glowered at that. She and Frollo could pretend all they wanted. They could dress her up as anything they wanted, they could give her as many weapons or threaten anyone they wanted, but she was still the daughter of a prostitute who had married a gypsy. When they were handing out class, she'd been barred from the line for breaking dress code. But when they were handing out wit, she had pulled the alarm and used the distraction to get what she wanted. "So did Frollo, but at least I can figure out what he wants."

"How would you know, you've never had a real relationship," Esmeralda scoffed.

"Have you?" Gaetan asked.

Now Esmeralda glowered. Unless a 'real relationship' was based on how much drool the woman could incite the man to produce, no, she had never had one. She had had things that she or the man had called a relationship because they either did not want to pay a prostitute or could not find one of the right gender. Esmeralda couldn't even remember the exact number of unreal relationships she had had. "How would you know?"

"I tricked Clopin," Gaetan answered. "Look, if he wanted to see my mother, he would and if he wanted to be treated like her, he'd ask for hints—or send me out to get them for him."

"I don't think I…wait…" Esmeralda mumbled.

"This might be why he has those 'headaches,'" Gaetan said, mostly to herself.

"Men have feelings like that?" Esmeralda blurted out, suddenly having a revelation. Gaetan wondered why she said it as if the last two words weren't necessary.

"You really are—"

"Married to your master," Esmeralda reminded Gaetan. "Don't get cocky."

"Yeah, I need one more thing that makes me just like him," Gaetan said.


	35. The world will know

In the end—which was actually still the beginning of the marriage, but the end of the yelling—Frollo got his way of ignoring Esmeralda like a piece of furniture whose sole purpose was to be decorative and cover up a rather embarrassing stain. Esmeralda wasn't too happy about it, but instead went about being ignored while chatting with Gaetan—and later Djali, who was a lot better of a conversationalist—about the wedding feast.

Everyone, save for Gaetan, who the two adults had found some silently agreed upon way of alternating using for their own entertainment, was contentedly not acknowledging anyone else. The bed proved big enough for each person to take up space on their own side and never have to touch the other—this might have explained why Claude's parents only had one child—and Gaetan's pallet was tucked away far enough that only she had to do anything with it. Gaetan's new clothes—the hat had been tucked away for special occasions—were large enough that Frollo was again convinced she was a boy of an undetermined age,—he'd ask later— Esmeralda wore enough clothes to just barely cling to the category of 'proper' while still retaining her ability to distract any male above the age of nine who wasn't Jacques, and Frollo was happy with the fact that he neither had to get himself new clothes nor had to pay the washerwomen anymore and didn't care what Esmeralda did with the laundry or what rules she had about it.

Frollo bought Esmeralda her own hairbrush, a tough, durable, thing that looked more like a small spiked club he'd brought out of the dungeons than something used for cosmetics, but it worked wonders with her thick course hair, which had tried to brutally murder his new brush and nearly succeeded. Neither of them had to bother to even think about Gaetan's hair, which didn't look much different brushed anyway.

Finally, two weeks were over and Frollo and Esmeralda regarded each other like strangers who were both late for a meeting and silently contemplated what they were going to do today. They both seemed to be feeling worse seeing the other get nowhere in their own interior dialog. If they didn't know what to do, obviously they couldn't follow their lead and pretend to know what they were doing.

A loud bleating interrupted their mental aimless wandering into dead ends and in circles and the two suddenly realized they'd been handed their best clothes and a few cosmetics and Gaetan was tying a giant ridiculous bow on Djali's neck with Esmeralda's pink ribbon. The goat had no care for fashion and had been dressed up in more idiotic outfits when Esmeralda was young or by children of her friend's, and was instead complaining at yet again being pulled off the furniture.

Esmeralda and Frollo now turned their confused gazes to Gaetan, whom they thought had no right to be happy and prepared and already fully dressed for the feast while they struggled to be comfortable saying each other's names.

………………..

The wedding was a joyous occasion for all. Frollo had one perfect day to have nothing to do with people acting like the idiots they inherently were. He could enjoy himself, for any mess anyone made he wouldn't have to clean up until tomorrow. Phoebus and Jacques would have their hands full—make that Jacques would have his hands full with Phoebus, given the amount of wine the captain was drinking. But Frollo could finally just enjoy himself by standing and watching and possibly talking if he found someone he considered smarter than a cow.

Esmeralda was enjoying herself. Clopin had returned her tambourine after he left, and she was once again distracting nearly every male in the audience simply by shaking a funny plate and swinging her hips.

Even Gaetan was enjoying herself, although she had been given several duties for the feast. Phoebus had gotten too drunk or too distracted too soon and the job of defending the couple from any sort of fertility ritual by the partygoers had gone to her. Two rocks and a very ungentlemanly placed bite that immediately ended a small skirmish proved that no one was going to get bread crumbs on anyone but themselves. Gaetan thought Frollo was faking his superstitions and just didn't like pigeons, but kept it to herself and enjoyed the party.

Better than his word, Frollo not only returned Prince and Giselle to Clopin, but escorted them both as well. He was late for his own wedding feast, delivering a cooing gypsy baby who had spent the whole ride trying to catch the veil of his hat. Instead of arriving at the wedding to the deliver the baby, Frollo had taken to heart how incompetent the father was at keeping the child quiet and so personally released Giselle from jail and walked her to the party and she carried the baby. They stopped twice before leaving the Palace of Justice for the baby to throw up in someone else's cell.

"Caloo! Calay! Oh, Frabjous day!" Clopin yelled, and Frollo barely managed to dodge the man's lunge at his family. Clopin grabbed Giselle, who clung dearly to her baby, and the scrawny gypsy swung her around until his arm gave out.

"Clopin, I have no idea what you're saying," Giselle said happily.

"I don't either," he said, still hugging her. "And—bear with me now, it's the best we're going to get and I think this might be an improvement in the long-run—I kept an eye on where your 'son' went after the… accident." With that, he pulled Gaetan from where she was sitting. "I warned him about the hat, but he insisted on wearing it. Maybe you can talk some sense into your boys."

………………….

The plan couldn't have gone any better. This was truly the perfect time to expose them all. Perhaps Paris would not run red with blood, but soon it would glow with fire. The dead don't talk, but he hadn't killed them all yet and jail was made for secrets to come out, not stay in.

The minister was watching his treacherous wife, who was busy reveling in the spoils of seduction. The Captain was drunk and at the moment chatting up some woman's breasts. Clopin would have been difficult, but he paid no attention to the shadows as a gypsy should. He was in the middle of a celebration given by the enemy. Now there was no one to stop the whispers from igniting the drunken revelry and starting a bonfire.

"Look over there," people began to say quietly. "Maybe it's true," more people spoke up. "I know that woman, she used to have a daughter, didn't she?" Men stopped eying Esmeralda and turned to the crowd of gossipers. "She disappeared, didn't she?" "I wondered why the boy's voice never broke." "No muscles, no matter what the man put the boy through, remember? I've seen the baker's son develop larger arms." By now the crowd had grown too large, they went back to what they were doing, many comments thrown into the group of guests at once. The drunkards were just as careful as the sober to keep them from the hosts until they were so intoxicated by the news that they demanded the entertainment of a hunt.

"The minister's apprentice is a girl! The heretic has been tricking us all!" rang out, carried by over a dozen voices.

Everything happened at once. Esmeralda froze. Frollo stood up and scanned the crowd, trying to find the source of the commotion. Jacques found a baby shoved into his hands and Clopin took off after Giselle as she took off running, fiercely holding her daughter's hand as a few guests ran after her. Phoebus hiccupped and fell over.

………….

Giselle had managed, a few time, to lose the growing mob, but never for very long. People were screaming for Gaetan's arrest. The two were chased down alleys, around corners, over walls and fences, and under and over anything else.

The two had no real direction, and, somehow, everyone without any sense or intent of a direction in Paris, they found themselves on the steps of Notre Dame. Or, more precisely, they realized that was exactly where they were a minute later as they backed up the steps from the mob and the archdeacon threw open the doors and was interrupted by Clopin, who had finally caught up with them. The angry gypsy was beyond words and had thrown the concept away in the gutter somewhere. He snarled at the mob as the closed in on the women and ignored the archdeacon and waved his dagger at them. Several members laughed at the tiny weapon, cut short as he carved a deep gash in someone's arm.

"What is going on here?" the archdeacon screamed.

Everyone stopped and finally noticed him, looking sheepish. It was some talent granted by the power of God to the clergy to yell and everyone stops and waits for instructions.

"Heresy!" someone yelled from the crowd, hoping to turn the church to their side. The church always helped you start a fire if they had a good reason. "That child is a girl! She's deceived us! She mocks God!"

The screams at that point became indecipherable as more people joined in, each with a different way of reiterating the news, as if the archdeacon had the memory of a goldfish and would suddenly forget to reconcile an important matter such as this if he wasn't reminded every two seconds.

"That is enough!" the archdeacon shouted. "I know!"

The crowd started mumbling, each person asking their neighbor if saying such a thing was allowed. Giselle grabbed her daughter, in case there was a large 'but' attached to the archdeacon's sentence. Gaetan swiftly took off her hat, which was the only polite thing she could think of at the time.

"Give me that, you're going to hurt some—ow!" the archdeacon yelled, grabbing at Clopin's dagger.

"Handle first," Clopin said.

"That is it!" the archdeacon yelled. "I want everyone involved to speak with me. That includes Minister Frollo, his captain, and the doctor. Now!"

The crowd stood there, stunned at how their fun had suddenly been called off. Had they all been riled up for nothing?

"I said now!" the archdeacon yelled. Frollo was right, given the opportunity, everyone in Paris would act like a child. Too bad he had to start talking with those who seemed the most childish.

………..

The wedding should have tipped the archdeacon off that the wedding feast was going to be a disaster. The archdeacon, though, seemed to have absolutely no foresight and little hindsight. This amounted to his bright ideas equating, almost always, to some new way to piss Frollo off, which just made trouble for everyone else down the road. The archdeacon prayed that this bright idea would not end up a disaster like all others and prayed harder as the party-goers arrived.

"Wonderful, now you have them both wearing tablecloths on their heads," Jacques complained at Gaetan's new hat. "Here, this is yours, I don't want it!" Jacques shoved Prince into Clopin's arms and yanked his cross necklace away from the baby's mouth.

"Why'm'I her'gain?" Phoebus slurred, wobbling slightly.

"Am I going to die?" Gaetan asked.

There was an immediate chorus of different responses from everyone. "Yes," from Frollo, "No," From the archdeacon, "Maybe," from Jacques, "You can't!" from Giselle, an angry 'Wait, what?" from Clopin, "Who?" from Phoebus, and a happy burble from Prince.

There was a long silence, which would have been longer if Phoebus, still wobbling, hadn't complained he had to pee—very impolitely.

Jacques grabbed Phoebus's hand and pulled him to the door. "Don't worry, I'll give him back," he said. Phoebus drunkenly hit the door on the way out.

"Will someone explain what exactly happened?" the archdeacon asked.

He instantly regretted his words as everyone, save for Gaetan, started arguing and pointing fingers.

"Fine! I get it! Everyone be silent!"

Everyone stopped arguing, but they were still shooting menacing glares at each other. The archdeacon shook his head. Not only did this so far solve nothing, but everyone was going to kill each other—or at least get into a heavy and embarrassing brawl—the second they left the cathedral.

The archdeacon wasn't sure if it was an improvement when Jacques returned with Phoebus, who was soaking wet and rubbing his head. It was actually the better of Jacque's techniques for drunkenness, but no one would pay to have a bucket of cold well water slammed over their head.

"Do I know you?" Giselle asked the captain from her seat on a pew.

"Who are you?" Phoebus asked. Reality wasn't coming back very clearly for he captain just yet; some parts were still opaque.

"I'm her mother," Giselle said, pointing at Gaetan.

"Dear, Lord, I hope not!" Phoebus replied, backing away.

"If you've all finished acting like children," the archdeacon prompted, or tried to.

"If that's when we're going to start, we've got years ahead of us," Jacques said.

"This ridiculousness has gone on long enough and it ends now!" the archdeacon yelled.

"Then I'm going home," Frollo said.

"You stay," the archdeacon ordered.

"You just took my apprentice away," Frollo said. "As far as I see, it's her problem now."

"You stay because you know how to keep this from turning into a trial over witchcraft," the archdeacon said, trying to order the man around, but embarrassment got the better of him.

"Wearing pants isn't witchcraft," Frollo scoffed.

Everyone was momentarily relieved.

"It's heresy. You should know that. She's completely incapable of witchcraft—or she was when I met her, I don't know about now, you'd have to ask him." Frollo pointed to Clopin.

"Hey!" Clopin shot back.

"What do you mean 'when you first met her?'" Phoebus asked. "How would you know?"

"She told me, that's how," Frollo argued.

"What kind of insane conversation were you having?" Phoebus yelled.

"I'm wondering what kind of conversation he's having now," Jacques said.

"They're talking about virginity Jacques," the archdeacon answered. "Phoebus no one wants to know what you want to know about Frollo being strange. Look, if there's a trial, every one of us is going to get into serious trouble with her!"

Everyone looked around and realized either how precarious their already rickety perch in society really was or that they weren't on higher ground. A prostitute, a gypsy, a man who preferred men over women—or furniture over women for that matter—an inquisition would have a field day, but add a Captain of the Archers who defended gypsies and frequented the brothel, an archdeacon who defended each and every of the others knowing full well what they did, and a Minister of Justice who knowingly accepted a cross-dressing female apprentice, gave her weapons and called her a boy and the inquisitors would make it a Holiday to remember for all time.

"Frollo, what are our options to keep this under control?" the archdeacon asked.

"It doesn't really matter, you want to take her away after throwing her at me; she's dead anyway," Frollo said. "And don't give me that look, you asked me and I gave you the answer."

"It—" Frollo stopped. He was pointing at Giselle, or, rather, her outfit. Then, he realized who, or, rather, what, he was talking to. It took Jacques a few years to understand after he left the clergy, but he caught on eventually as to what short hair and certain patterns on women's dresses signified. Phoebus probably still didn't get it, but bright red letters would probably elude the man; it wasn't like Phoebus really thought of women of the night and women of anything else were any different anyway. But the archdeacon? Oh, no, he'd never figure it out. 'God, I have to spell it out to him in big blocky letters in all capitals' Frollo thought. When the tales of Minister of Justice during his hated the seasonal visit to the whorehouse and standing there, waiting for answers, while half of everyone around thought that if they were still and quiet long enough he'd go away and the other half were so drunk they decided to make fun of him two seconds after he'd entered the room, meanwhile there was a corpse in the middle of the room and no one had bothered to hide the knife or there were two people in the corner still carrying on the brawl even though they had no idea why it started in the first place were the favorites to tell around fires and on holidays, they apparently never made their way here, no matter how many people told them to countless drunks and vagrants. Frollo sighed. Just when he thought he had one perfect day of not having to clean up after anyone else or explain things in small words and only use big ones if they were religious ones. "Her mother's a whore."

Half the room looked offended, while the other half looked at the other and wondered where the other's brain had been all this time.

"That's hardly polite even for you," Jacques scolded.

"No, it's true," Phoebus said sheepishly. "I have no idea how he learned it, but she told me."

"You people have worse skills than I do when it comes to women," Jacques said, his head in his hands.

"No one would hire a maid who's a bastard child of a harlot," Frollo said. "She's not even a good maid. She's a horrible maid. She's a good manservant, but that's different."

"Hey!" Clopin spoke up. He'd been having a hard time defending his reluctant daughter and he was going to keep trying until he got it right. "Give me some credit!"

"Weren't you arrested a few weeks ago?" Jacques complained. "For kidnapping her?"

"Yes, you'd be a great improvement on her life," Frollo said sarcastically. "Instead of living at the brothel, she can live in the Court of Miracles. I'm sure she'd love that."

"Actually, I don't live there anymore, I quit," Clopin said, rather crestfallen at admitting it.

"Then I arrest both or all of you for sleeping on the streets," Frollo said. "There's nothing else anyone can do if they don't like the idea of tossing her back out onto the streets. What are you going to do, keep her here in the cathedral?" Frollo paused. "Wait, you can. I'll be going now."

"Fine," the archdeacon conceded. "But you're doing another favor if you want to keep her any longer."

"What?" Frollo complained. "Why should I? It was your idea in the first place."

"You think you can keep this up without the protection of the church now that an unruly mob knows she's a girl?"

"Fine, what do you want?" Frollo said, angry that he was giving in to the archdeacon. The whole point of Gaetan had been to point and laugh at the man without actually going against God.

"You come with me," the archdeacon said. "And if I hear of anymore problems you have with her, I will take her away." The archdeacon turned around and started to leave to the back of the cathedral, but stopped after a few steps. "And no one but Jacques or her mother is allowed to talk to her until I get back!" the archdeacon yelled, before he disappeared with the minister following.

"What did I do?" Clopin wondered aloud.

"Go away," Jacques complained. Despite his usually amiable nature, Jacques actually held less of a liking for gypsies than Frollo did. The French had threatened him and boycotted him, but usually seeing the minister in the hospice or chatting with him in the street kept it at that. To the French, though, he was a good doctor, if amazingly screwed up in the head when it came to reproduction. To the gypsies, though, he was an old man with a vast supply of blankets, handy knickknacks, medical supplies, and many things that made your brain sizzle like a piece of prime steak. The gypsies held stonger reservations against him than the French or anyone in the church ever had. Jacques had been attacked, robbed, beaten, and amateurishly nearly killed, many times having to call Frollo to a futile search for the culprits. Jacques regarded gypsies as a smarter type of rabid dog which had learned to lie in wait before chewing someone's arm to confetti.

"Excuse me," someone squeaked.

Jacques looked around and finally set his gaze towards the floor in front of him and noticed Gaetan. "Um…yes?"

"Are you married?"

Phoebus immediately burst into laughter, the noise tinged with what was left of his drunkenness. "It's not obvious?"

"You're not in the conversation," Jacques snapped at the captain.

"What's not obvious?" Clopin asked, feeling as if he was missing half the conversation. Giselle pulled him aside and started whispering to him.

"The idiot's got a point," Jacques said, pointing to Phoebus with his thumb.

Phoebus looked offended and glared.

Jacques ignored him.

"Men can do that?" Clopin interrupted the silent game of teasing.

Giselle slapped her forehead.

Clopin looked like he was trying to figure out a complicated math problem in his head.

"Well, when you figure it out, I'm warning you, I carry sharp scissors with me wherever I go and the last man who tried something got a lot more than a haircut," Jacques said, trying to be menacing.

"So?" Gaetan asked.

"So I—Oh, it's you," Jacques said, suddenly realizing he wasn't threatening a gypsy, who by now was wondering what Jacques' problem with other people's problem with him was. "What was your question again?"

Phoebus shook his head. Everyone called him stupid, but right now the doctor couldn't remember five minutes ago.

"So what does that have to do with marriage?" Gaetan asked.

"Okay, I think I see where this is going," Jacques said. "No, I've never been married. No person in their right mind would waste a good dowry on someone who'd ask the girl to bring home any male 'friends' she came across. You can't come to me and ask me how to do this. You can't bunch us together just because you wear pants and I want to get into someone's. I don't recommend you join the church, honestly, you wouldn't be any good at it and it costs more money than you can afford, looking at those two. You're going to have to figure out how to avoid getting married on your own, but look at it this way: you can do a lot more damage than just put an eye out. Isn't this something you should be asking them about?" Jacques pointed at Gaetan's parents.

Gaetan rolled her eyes.

"Point," Jacques said. A prostitute and someone who—in Jacques's mind—couldn't be trusted with a wet match. Not a good pair of role models for an aspiring law-and-torch-wielding psychopath who just wanted to stay single and keep her legs shut. "Well, if you can figure out some way to be as sorry a loser as me, I'd say you hit the nail on the head with a steel mallet, but it's not like I can give you lessons. I'm a lot better with broken legs than expectations."

"Sir?" Gaetan asked.

"Uh… my name's Jacques," Jacques said. Or 'Help me, I'm bleeding!'

"Are all men clueless idiots?" she asked.

Jacques looked around. He looked at Phoebus, who looked annoyed, he looked at Clopin, who looked confused and annoyed that Jacques thought he was hiding branding irons in his pockets, he looked at the baby, who was trying to eat his own foot, he looked toward the back of the church, and then he finally looked at his feet. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Hey!" Phoebus protested.

"What did I do?" Clopin asked.

"Neither of you are allowed in this conversation!" Jacques stated, before turning to Gaetan. "Are women worth all the trouble and stupidity?"

Gaetan looked over at her mother, then stared at the door and wondered about Esmeralda, then stared at her new shoes. There was tar on the toe of one of them already. "Some of them are."


	36. Stop, Look, and Listen

"If you want to take care of that child, you're going to prove how good you are with the first one," the archdeacon said angrily. "You're going to go up that two and tell that boy the truth!"

"About what?" Frollo asked, hoping the archdeacon would keep his voice down. The first thought Frollo had was that he was yet again going to have to give the boy 'the talk,' revenge for telling Quasimodo to ask the archdeacon about what had happened to Gaetan.

"About his parents," the archdeacon said.

"Oh that," Frollo said, relieved at first, until the full impact of the statement dawned on him. "But—"

"You want an apprentice?"

Did he want someone else to keep his house clean, draw his bath, make them else take over the worse parts of his job while trusting them to not to be outsmarted by their own horse? The answer to that was yes. However, weighing the choice between having all that and not having his head smashed against a giant bell kept Frollo where he was for a short moment.

But he'd come this far and put up with everything from farm animals to fighting lessons with someone who looked like an emaciated scarecrow. The only thing that made it all worth the trouble was that Gaetan had handed over to him the gypsies and their secret hideout. But, turning to look in the direction of her and the rest of what was probably the most insane of lunatics that populated Paris, he realized that not only would he still have a spectacular advantage in controlling the dangerous rabble in Paris, especially the gypsies, but that he could use the same thing to keep his head where it was if Quasi tried anything he understandably would.

And, at least, this way he could save face—and sadly, time—and probably get the archdeacon in trouble finally. "You're going to need a mop and a very good excuse." With that, Frollo marched up the stairs.

With each step, he grew more and more worried, but less inclined to turn back and admit defeat given how far he'd gone.

Just as his foot settled on the floor at the end of the long flight of steps, Frollo felt something heavy strike him. Just as he was about to panic at his hands pinned to his sides and being unable to move, he suddenly realized Quasimodo had lunged at him forcefully and was hugging him.

"I think I need my ribs to live…" Frollo rasped.

Eager to impress his father, Quasimodo pulled back slightly, letting Frollo get used to being able to breathe again. "What's going on?"

'Was that ever a loaded question,' Claude thought. His only knowledge of handling loaded questions so far was asking them himself. He wasn't sure what to do with one aimed at him. So he did the only thing he could think of: he changed the subject. "We need to talk about something. Not here." He led Quasimodo up the stairs and away from the bells. Bells, posts, stairs pillars, outcroppings, sharp corners… how in the world did Quasimodo survive here as a kid? Finally, Frollo had an idea. He sat down on one side of the table with Quasimodo's toys and the boy sat at the other, waiting for whatever news he had. If damaging the toys didn't deter Quasimodo, they'd at least prove a nuisance to killing him.

Frollo noticed the little doll of him standing on the steps of the toy cathedral. The very first doll Quasimodo had ever made was of him. This wasn't it. As Quasimodo grew more and more skilled at his whittling, he'd replaced dolls of people he felt were important. The boy thought he'd lost the original, but Frollo had taken it while he was finished a second. Sadly, the doll had disappeared over a decade ago, most likely stolen by rats. This doll was the seventh incarnation of him in wood. As Quasimodo had once said, dolls could be replaced, but people couldn't. That was exactly what Frollo was hoping to use as leverage and perhaps an even better advantage in this litte game everyone thought he was losing at.

"Those gypsies have started trouble over Gaetan again," Frollo said. He held up his hand, silencing Quasimodo, and went on. "She's not in trouble, at least not much. They've caused a little disturbance and its been made public that she's a… she." He was not, even if he was threatened at knifepoint, to refer to his apprentice as a 'girl' or 'woman.' "Do not worry, the archdeacon has agreed to give her permission, nothing horrible will happen to her, but she is still in potential danger. Did you know about her mother?"

"Um… what about her mother?" Quasimodo asked, rubbed the back of his head embarrassedly. Frollo had taught the boy such things weren't for polite conversation, and Quasimodo had not spoken to enough people to know when politeness was no longer to be observed.

"You remember the trouble she got into because of the leader of the gypsies?"

"What did he do to her?" Quasimodo. Every now and then, his wound ached, especially on the colder nights, even though they were now into early summer. It wasn't the determined woman that he remembered when his side hurt, but the thing gypsy man who pushed her away and would have been choked on the streets if his dagger weren't lodged so deep. If Quasimodo hadn't lost so much blood, the gypsy's threats and torment would have ended right then and there.

"He married her, apparently," Frollo said, disgusted. "That man owns Gaetan's mother. This means she's close to those gypsies. She could lead them from their heathen ways, but then, she could be turned to them. I want you to watch her closely, keep her on the right course, I trust you can do that. You did, in fact, save her from their very leader."

"I think so, master," Quasimodo said, nodding.

"Good. Now, the archdeacon's protection comes at a price. I have been doing for you what I want you to do for Gaetan, except, you've obviously done a far better job, apparently."

"I don't understand," Quasimodo said.

"I've been lying to you about how I adopted you. I never found you on the steps of Notre Dame. How do I put this nicely…? There were gypsies and—"

"You fought them off, right?" Quasimodo asked, happy about being able to hear a story about his brave father.

"Yes, well, that would be the problem…" Frollo said. "One of them... died and the archdeacon caught me trying to kill a baby in a well, that's pretty much how it went."

"Why are you telling me this?" Quasimodo asked. Frollo was losing what little skill he had at telling stories.

"Frankly, because the archdeacon told me," Frollo said. Was this ironic or just poetic to a very cranky fate? "I never intended to tell you about this at all. I didn't think you needed to know."

"I don't," Quasimodo said. "You're still my father. You meant everything you said… I mean… You said you'd understand if I ran off looking for Gaetan and you gave me the bells and you taught me how to read… did you do all of those things because the archdeacon told you to?"

"Not really. I just…" Just what? You don't give your dog presents, especially on their birthday. There really had been no practical point to teaching Quasimodo to read. In fact, if he really didn't feel like it, he would never have read to the boy when he was a baby or taught him how to walk. "I just did."

"That's why I like you as my father," Quasimodo said. "You're kind enough to do all of those things. You watch over me. I promise, I'll watch over Gaetan the same way… well, almost. She's more of a sister to me."

"I'm not kind, Quasimodo. Not with my job," Frollo said. Hadn't he taught this boy anything? He was supposed to shape Quasimodo's entire world. How could the hunchback of all people forget Frollo's job was arresting, convicting, hurting, or killing people. When did 'nice' fit into any of those jobs? Was that stuff so easy to forget?

Quasimodo immediately took hold of them. "I think you're kind."

'Yes, but you still play with dolls,' Frollo thought. "Thank you."

…………………

Frollo stayed in the bell tower with his son much longer after the conversation. For once in a long time, Frollo actually felt like he wanted to be with his son. Then again, it was probably thinking of the alternatives that kept him where he was. He was, however, enjoying himself with the boy, but that was something else.

Leaving the bell tower would mean he would have to return to dealing with the archdeacon, the last person Frollo ever wanted to be around for even two seconds. Now his apprentice, whom he'd gone to so much trouble to raise from a filthy street urchin with the morals of a chicken to a gentleman had been taken away and replaced with a girl. A girl who'd end up as nothing more than a woman. He already had one, why did he have to end up with another? Why did people have to ruin all his nice things with women and gypsies and children?

Added to that, his captain was intoxicated and still an idiot, and that gypsy probably had too much sugar. Jacques, however… wait, did he just leave Jacques with a gypsy?

"I think I have to cut this meeting short. I have to go stop some people from killing each other," Frollo excused himself.

The archdeacon was not at the bottom of the stairs where Frollo had left him, predictably. The archdeacon was always where you didn't need him. Even more predictably, there was shouting coming form the front of the church.

"Well, that probably means no one's dead yet," Frollo said to himself. He wondered if he should be disappointed.

The disaster taking place was not quite a fight, but Frollo had heard less yelling during bar fights where every patron decided to get involved. Phoebus was finding out that there was not just more to Jacques than seemed at first in that the man could be angered into a very dangerous frenzy, especially in the presence of a gypsy and especially before they stole his scissors, but also that the man was a lot heavier than he looked. The captain was using all his strength to hold the doctor back from striking Clopin, who had been chased onto the back of one of the pews, with his scissors. Meanwhile, the archdeacon was holding back Giselle. He was still a slow learner, taking a lot of abuse from the woman and almost punch-drunk from it. Standing to the side and watching the fight from a safe distance was Gaetan, holding her brother at arm's length, apparently disgusted at how he smelled. Prince was eating his own black hair, making Frollo wonder if gypsies ever heard of haircuts, or just got them from someone as unskilled as Jacques.

"What are you doing back?" the archdeacon asked, still struggling with Giselle. Somehow he had never thought that after wrestling with someone and ruining them financially, or having someone else abandon them to a cruel fate that was, in fact, all their fault, would give her any incentive to learn how to fight back afterwards.

"Watching," Frollo answered, taking the baby from Gaetan. He grabbed the back of Giselle's dressed and pulled her off the archdeacon. She seemed far more afraid of jail—or possibly losing her baby, no matter how loud or expensive it had been in the past—than of eternal damnation, for she immediately changed tactics to trying to cringe out of Frollo's grasp. Ignoring her, he shoved Prince into the arms. "Change this."

Frollo shoved Giselle back as he approached went to separate Jacques and the gypsy. "I need that one alive, Jacques."

Jacques backed away and Phoebus immediately took his hands away and put them behind his back and refused to make eye contact with the doctor. "Oh please," Jacques said, crossing his arms and shaking his head.

Finally, Frollo grabbed Clopin by his collar as the gypsy fell off the back of the pew. "Do make sure you take the best of care of my apprentice," he said cheerfully, leaving everyone in the cathedral confused and even Jacques felt a chill down his spine at hearing Frollo sound so happy under the circumstances.

"Gaetan, follow me. Phoebus… I don't care," Frollo said, and walked to the back of the cathedral, grabbing Gaetan's shirt as he passed her.

"Frollo, what about her family?" the archdeacon asked as Frollo continued to leave.

"She'll visit them quite often, I should hope," Frollo answered, his loud voice echoing back.

"Not in jail!" the archdeacon yelled.

Frollo stopped and turned around, almost invisible against the darkness of the church, and small fro the distance he'd already crossed. At times like this, the archdeacon wished he had a smaller cathedral. "I should hope not. Make sure you keep your end of our bargain."

"So… that was good, right?" Phoebus asked, giving Frollo time to disappear in the back completely. "Because I don't know anymore."

"You didn't know in the first place," Jacques complained, walking around the captain to put the soldier between him and the gypsy.

"Hey, I suggested he stop the next day!" Phoebus complained.

"Well, I'm happy I get to keep my daughter," Clopin said, trying to lighten the mood. To an extent. He did finally have enough money to take care of his family, and he now knew where everyone in it were. Finding out, however, had cost him his bigger family, and both their protection of him and his protection of them. As hard as he tried, he could not find a real reason to blame Frollo for the whole mess. Frollo was the reason they could all live happily with a real roof and real food and he was he reason Gaetan, Giselle, and even Prince was still alive. In fact, Esmeralda seemed to be enjoying… something… about the man and even better had agreed to a marriage that now pinned the minister into a tight situation where he couldn't kill any gypsy without good reason. If Frollo didn't stop whatever he was obviously up to, Clopin would have to thank him, and he wanted nothing to do with that.

"Wait, you're her father?" Phoebus asked. Everyone was wondering it, and now they were also concerned that Phoebus was the first to be the voice of such concern. If the world wasn't going to Hell, it was certainly turning itself inside-out.

"Her foster father," Clopin said, assuming the captain was either too stupid or too drunk to figure out what simple rules of genetics were obvious even for the century they were in.

"And Frollo's sure there's no reason to arrest you?" Phoebus said, suddenly bombarded by several images of a Gaetan 'taken care of ' by a gypsy, given what he'd been trying to pretend never happened a month ago.

"I'm sure he'll give us a reason in a minute," Jacques said, not at all in his usual happy mood anymore. "But I don't want to be here when he does."

"What's his problem?" Clopin asked, gesturing at Jacques as the doctor walked around the pews, determined not to be anywhere near the gypsy as he left the cathedral.

"Weren't you the one they arrested while she was in my room?" Phoebus threatened.

"What were you doing with my daughter in your room?" Giselle yelled.

"The next person I hear talking about this mess I'm excommunicating," the archdeacon said. He wanted solitude and a lot of it to make sure he hadn't actually made a bad decision and everything these people said made things worse and he didn't want to tell the poor woman that her child smelled horrible and was going to make him sick.

Phoebus went both silent and completely sober immediately and left. Giselle grabbed her husband's sleeve and tried to make him leave just as fast, but he was proving to be a difficulty. "What's that mean?"

………………………..

Frollo left via the back of the cathedral, confident in the archdeacon's slowness and indecisiveness. The archdeacon was a tool to keep his apprentice; a necessary one, but not a convenient one. Frollo needed Gaetan to feel she owed him, not the archdeacon, but he needed the damn man not to be an obstacle in raising and teaching her.

No doubt the archdeacon had yet to address the crowd, already drunk on spoiled good wine, enthusiastic from revelry that was meant to have been in congratulations to him and not rebellion, and were now mad that the entertainment had been stolen by the church and was being conducted in secret. It would take days for them to calm down and the idea to obey the archdeacon on his eclectic to sink in.

As much as he'd gained today, there was still much that needed fixing. Gaetan was her first priority to deal with, and so he led her to the Palace of Justice, despite the fact that the only 'policing' done that day was throwing rocks, one at a man chatting up her mother because he didn't believe her when she said she was quitting.

The Palace of Justice was far less a building than it was a symbol of the judicial power within Paris. Covered in points and sharp coronets and spires and heavily guarded and full of heavy and locked doors, it was just as dangerous, threatening, and inescapable as what it represented. It housed judges, bailiffs, servants, equipment, a large personal study, living quarters that Frollo no longer used now that he had an apprentice and found them inconvenient, and much, much more to keep the courts, jails, executions, and soldiers functioning properly that the barracks couldn't provide.

Every room had its own individual atmosphere, almost a personality, to it. Even the empty courtrooms were boring and felt stifling, the study was solemn, dull, but calm and lulling, the kitchen was a busy, yet always perfectly organized room to the point of being more a mechanism made of finely tuned and shaped parts than a room of people.

All of these were ignored and instead he showed Gaetan the most notorious part of the Palace of Justice, the part everyone knew of and most people believed was the only part. The dungeons were different from what the rumors made them out to be. The cells were more or less clean, or at least what mess prisoners made was soaked up by the fresh hay; there was no squalor anywhere. Infection tended to steal Frollo's show and made him less frightening and disease, filth, and foul odors lingering for a long time were distracting to both prisoners and jailers and in the long run hard to deal with. It was much simpler if the only thing anyone in the cells focused on was their own torture and what was asked of them, or, in the case of new comers, finding a very healthy way of calming down and thinking very hard about cooperating. The torches on the walls were boring normal torches; no shadow play, no raging infernos attached to the walls, none were ever taken down and thrown into the hay in the cells to roast people in bonfires, and there were certainly no revolving walls. The torches merely stood at attention and carried on with their duty, just like the guards.

However, the more supernatural rumors seemed true. People locked their doors and windows and looked about in shadows, refusing to speak them if there was even a rat heard scuttling about in the walls. They said the Minister of Justice transformed, unknowingly taken over by demons, when he stepped into the dungeons. He became a monster, sinister and slithering into your soul, poisoning it with crippling nightmares. That was how he caught demons. He let them in, making cracks in one's faith and letting Satan's loyal servants slip in. Gaetan had heard those stories since she was four, and no one saw any reason not to tell her. She did not believe them, given how many times Frollo had gladly walked into Notre Dame and even touched Holy Water. Yet her skin prickled as he slowly led her down the hallway, past the prisoners who were held back by bars and no hope or will. His arm was behind her head and his arm was on her shoulder, tighter than usual and he held her closer than usual. What was most disturbing was that he was happy.

"A strange fact that The Lord, in all His Wisdom, decided to make you female," Frollo said. "I never thought I'd ever find such a soul with determination such as yours and yet yearning for true guidance." He stopped in front of a cell and knelt down and turned her toward him, blocking her view of the cell and making her meet his eyes as he traced her jaw with the back of a long finger. "You've had so many opportunities to disappoint me. You've always kept that fearsome determination I taught you with you and never wavered from my side. You could have lied to save your poor mother or that innocent gypsy of yours. You could have helped them behind my back or sold me out to Esmeralda when you wanted to. I am proud of your loyalty, not just to me, but to your family. You're the only hope for your poor mother and your half-blooded brother. Yes, I know exactly what you've been doing with the money I've so generously been giving you."

Gaetan swallowed, her throat painfully tight.

"But your loyalty would be nothing without that mind of yours, remember that," Frollo continued, holding her face with on hand on each cheek. His smile was wider than anything she'd ever seen, but it was as ephemeral as smoke. He stood up and his hands slid to her shoulders. "Do not mistake me, I am truly happy for the friends and family you've found. But you should always remember that I shall have them, any of them bound in iron if they dare defy the king's good laws in my city."

He stepped to the side and turned to the cell, giving Gaetan a perfect view of what lay inside. A gypsy woman who looked about five years older than her mother lay on the hay, too exhausted to make any noise, but wide awake. Gaetan took her time taking in what had happened to the woman, never having seen injuries such as those on the woman. After a few minutes, Gaetan deduced that the woman had had several joints pulled out of their sockets, shoved back into place hours later. The woman was covered in burns, hot wax and oil still one parts of her skin and clothes. Gaetan turned to Frollo, wondering what she was supposed to think of the scene before her.

"She confessed to aiding those conspiring against you," Frollo said, returning his hand to her shoulder. "If you feel any mercy for her, I'd smother it now. She wanted you dead and would have laughed, had your new father not rescued you. She is sentenced to be burned at the stake, and no, I will not have you stand to sentence her. I want you safe, remember that, safe from people like her who would raise a knife at you the second they were returned to the streets. Do you think such justice could be accomplished were the captain in charge? Do you think your new father could truly save you, were he in charge? If you are ever called upon to bring justice to the innocent, I want you to remember how she might not only go after you were she pardoned, but perhaps after your innocent gypsy father, or your brother, your mother even, or perhaps Quasimodo.

The gypsies are not just determined, but they can be cunning. They tried to have you killed from these very dungeons, just to have something to laugh at as they revel in Hell's beckoning flames. What they cannot at first kill, they will try to destroy. Your father is an innocent gypsy, indeed, but look at those he controls: rapists, thieves, murderers… Be prepared to keep him from ever sending your mother here again, but always remember who it was who let her out."

Frollo moved his hand from her shoulder to her head, slowly sliding his fingers under her hat without disturbing it. "I'll bet he promised you his underground kingdom of colorful wonders to lure you to his side. No matter, I'll make sure its yours. After all, isn't it every little girl's dream to be a princess?"

Gaetan resented that he suddenly addressed her as a girl and compared her to someone like Esmeralda. She'd rather be stealing from giants or tricking monsters, although curing poison by kissing was incentive enough to just move to another country, no matter the treasure.

"Just think of what you'd rule. Just think, _ultio mea est_." He dug his fingers into her hard and gripped hard. "Always, _ultio mea est_. Never forget it."

Oh yes, _ultio mea est_.


	37. That's what makes the world go round

Frollo had thought, every now and then as he worried what tricks the gypsies were up while hiding her away from him in their court while it lay hidden and out of his reach, that he couldn't be prouder of his apprentice. He knew, despite having no control and no way to even reach her, he'd never betray her. Then she handed to him not only the location of the Court of Miracles, despite how afraid she was that she herself had no knowledge. Then… then things couldn't possibly be better. Ever. She had found him their leader, practically thrown the man in jail herself.

Now though… oh, everything was almost too perfect for him to still be alive. That damned clown of a king was the very man knocking boots with her mother constantly. In fact, the stupid gypsy was the one who'd practically run Gaetan out on the streets in the first place.

Frollo decided to stop that line of thinking right there. He didn't have everything going right just yet and if he dwelt too much on causality, he'd have to thank the man.

He couldn't let him get ahead of himself. He still had problems he needed to fix and he needed them fixed immediately before they got out of control like they always did.

To make sure Gaetan didn't misinterpret his message, he stopped at a shop and bought her dinner on the way home, his hand on her back as much of the time as he could manage. Yes, she was his little dog and he loved her loyal little tricks. That was the way it was going to stay and no one was going to get in the way of him, his dog, or her tricks.

He petted Gaetan's ruffled hair and told her he'd be back; there were things he needed to do.

"You bought her dinner?" Esmeralda asked. All this time, she'd been worried about both of them and the only result she could see was that Gaetan's hat had turned around on her scruffy head and the kid was struggling to eat a sugary pastry with the dainty refinement Frollo had taught her. "Why don't I get any?"

Claude knew the answer and thought Esmeralda knew the answer too. Now he came up to a similar academic wall Gaetan had run into when she had explained how to handle similar matters. To be precise, he'd hit two walls at the same time. First, he had no idea how to explain his problem. He knew what it was: if she treated people kept in the Palace of Justice the way she'd treated him, he'd soon be out of a job with no one willing to dare break any laws, even drunk. She played worse mind games with him than he could ever conceive of. He had actually liked her for Godknewwhy in the beginning and he was prepared to keep up the marriage and keep her fed and happy and content well after she told him about the Court of Miracles. She, however, seemed to think it was a wonderful game of making him miserable and wasn't in the least bit ashamed about it.

The second wall was that he felt he couldn't tell her. Why would he be upset? The only reason they were married was because of what half of her people had done to his apprentice; emotions, especially his, were not to be involved, let alone talked about. He wasn't supposed to feel this way and he certainly wasn't supposed to talk about it.

Gaetan wasn't aware of those reasons, but she was well tired of Frollo's house having somehow turned into the brothel, complete with the nasty smell, the yelling, and sleeping under the table now and then. If this went on, there'd be knife-fights and someone would be arrested. If she didn't know how easily Esmeralda would distract Frollo and that she actually carried a knife with her, Gaetan would be fine with that.

Gaetan did know one reason, and hoped it wasn't the only reason he fed her: Frollo had no defense against Esmeralda. The marriage contract practically prevented him from touching her. He could, however, make her jealous and angry, and Gaetan was apparently the perfect tool for just such and undertaking.

"Because she deserves it," Claude answered.

"Where were you all this time?" Esmeralda asked.

"I'll tell you later, but right now I need your help," Claude said and lead Esmeralda out the door. "It's rather important, and I'm afraid it can't wait."

………………….

Claude was thankful for the later nights of summer. He could spend more time teaching people not to be idiots before they went and broke something—namely each other. Then again, this meant he was dealing with idiots instead of staying at home and waiting for them to kill themselves in the dark.

He escorted Esmeralda a few streets and then realized he didn't know where he was going. Pretending nothing was wrong; he decided he'd have to let idiots cause a big mess that he'd have to get them out of in order to pretend he didn't get himself into a smaller one. "I want you to go find your friend Clopin and both of you go to the Court of Miracles and deliver a message for me: that man is to be reinstated as whatever you people call your leader and both of you are not to be excluded from your gypsy anarchy."

"But it's not that simple—" Esmeralda protested. It wasn't fair, either. The little kid got presents and already owned a horse and he came home loving it more than he ever loved her… or showed it without trying to run away, at least.

"Well, of course I want you to remind them that I told them to," Claude said. "Do press that point.

"And tell them that if they take too long deciding, or if they make the wrong choice, I'll be coming down to deal with matters myself. Now, I have a few more matters to clear up with Gaetan, but I should be there soon if you have any trouble." Trying to end the conversation there, he walked away, wishing he had a door to slam.

"But they'll kill me!" she yelled.

"Remind them not to, it'd really ruin my day," he said. Although, he had to admit, life would be quieter if it did happen.

……………………

Claude returned home to find Gaetan cleaning the table and the goat—for once—not on his furniture.

"Stop that and sit down," Frollo ordered.

Gaetan grabbed her rag and sat down in the chair Esmeralda sat in at dinner. Frollo seated himself in his own chair, not noticing. Gaetan preferred the chair, feeling as if she'd been chased out of it by Esmeralda and sometimes Djali.

"I'm going to tell you a little story; you like stories, don't you?" Frollo said.

Gaetan shrugged. Her mother's stories were pretty good, but Gaetan wondered about the endings. Esmeralda complained about the other fairytales and ruined them by insisting things be watered down and some completely changed. Then there were the stories the men at the brothel told, about fights with anything from a hundred other men to bears. Those were never fun. Gaetan preferred just having conversations, which Phoebus was good at, but they were pointless and had no entertainment value for others that she could see.

Frollo wasn't sure where to go from there. Most people either were interested in his stories, like Quasimodo, but seemed disappointed about how he told them, or were too scared to protest—or even shrug. Well, she didn't exactly say she didn't, so he might as well try. "When I was your age, I lived with my father and my mother. They lived happily together and I trained as a soldier and went to university during the warmer seasons to make them happy. But one day there were gypsies in front of my father's shop, yelling I their strange foreign language and they refused to leave until he threatened to bring the law into the matter. They finally left, but as he was cleaning up that night, they threw a lit torch through the window of his shop. Almost fifty people died." In truth, there were many incidents, some provoked, others spontaneous that the gypsies had perpetrated. All of them just made the gypsies look bad. Five days after he was born, there was a smaller fire and on the day of his baptism a shopkeeper was murdered by trying to break up a fight between a large gypsy family. Even if he paid no attention to the goings on in the city, his father constantly complained about them trying to cheat him and trying to frighten customers away in revenge, his mother complained that they filthy and recently she'd been proven right that they liked to seduce even the best of men—although she said 'young boys'—away from clean thoughts and sometimes even fidelity, and even Claude's teachers and commanding officers found a reason to dislike them.

"Gypsies will make any promises they think will get them their way. Your father has promised you will be a princess of his kingdom, has he not?"

Gaetan nodded.

"As much as I dislike thinking of you as a female, I want you to remember that title. Your father, your brother—God forbid you make the same mistake—your husband can take everything away from you. If you are not carefully, they will take not only what power you have over those gypsies, but they will take this job from you, they will take your money, your possessions, and even your freedom if you are not careful. I want you to make sure what is yours will remains so, even your power over the court.

"I am sending you there tomorrow to meet your family. Do whatever you feel is necessary to assert yourself as both heir and law there."

"But I don't want to go there," Gaetan protested. "Ever again."

"Oh, but you must. I need you to keep those gypsies in line. I have sent Esmeralda and your father to speak with them and make sure it is safe." He set his hand on her shoulder. His dog was getting ideas of walking itself, and that wasn't right. "You may be that man's daughter, but first and foremost you are my apprentice and that means you are my property. You do as I order, and you will aid me in whatever I feel will keep this city from falling into Godless anarchy. If I tell you to manipulate a few gypsies when you have all the right to do so, you will do it."

"I'm just here to be used against people?" Gaetan asked.

"Oh course you are, I wouldn't have it any other way," Frollo said, crossing his arms. She was not the kind of dog that women like Esmeralda held in their lap and petted all day or used as decoration. He was not going to have useless pets… well, he's find something to do with the goat, but he was not going to have any more useless pets. "I'd have fired you a long time ago if you hadn't been so competent. And now that you're the daughter of the leader of the gypsies, you're even more useful than I ever could have thought.

"Don't you dare go soft on me. I was tempted to get rid of he captain over that, I will certainly get rid of you if you start doing anything of the sort.

"Now, I am going to make sure the Court of Miracles will be safe for you to visit. If anything should happen tomorrow, though, I want you to make your way straight her or to the cathedral. You'll be safe from anything there."

Frollo left the house in silence. Gaetan waited for the door to close fully before smiling, despite his warnings. To him, she was nothing more than a hungry ferret to release into a mill to rid it of rats with any tricks or sharp points she had, but to her it was still a compliment. He found her useful to keep around, not a nuisance or a burden. Perhaps someday she'd be with her mother again and she would think the same thing, only better because her mother loved her.

Perhaps someday…

………………..

"Your husband does this just to inconvenience us," Clopin grumbled as he and Esmeralda walked down the tunnel to the Court of Miracles.

"It could be worse," Esmeralda said. "Five minutes later, and you and Giselle would have really been annoyed that I showed up."

"If I didn't want to image of Frollo doing such things in my head, I'd swear I'd repay the favor," Clopin complained, waving the torch he held.

"Halt!" someone yelled in the darkness. They leapt from a high ledge and landed dramatically in front of both of them, splashing loudly in the sewage. "Who goes?"

"Felipe, you could hear me complaining a mile off," Clopin snapped. "Look, Frollo decided to send us here to deliver some stupid message of his." Clopin held the torch so as to shed light on Esmeralda as well. Proving that he was with Frollo's wife would hopefully prevent any physical conflicts. Or at least postpone them.

"He knows I'm here," Esmeralda said, in case Felipe was thinking of hiding her body and thinking the aftermath would be amusing to watch.

Felipe was not a friend of either of them, but he at least tried to keep his trouble-making to a minimum. He had no skill at avoiding getting caught, and yet he couldn't keep his mouth shut when used as a decoy. Everyone preferred that he stayed at home and found something actually useful to do. Apparently, he'd annoyed a few people and been given guard duty, a job which required getting caught and being able to say whatever you felt. Felipe slowly considered Clopin, then Esmeralda, then went back to slowly grinding his rusty mental gears about Clopin. "Go away," he finally said.

"But—" Esmeralda tried.

"We're supposed to let soldiers in," Felipe said. He was skinny and his weapons were hidden where he usually carried them and the tunnel was wide, but both of them knew that as unskilled as he was at avoiding confrontation, he could not only put up a fight other people immediately regretted getting into, but he was also good at warning others. "We don't have to be likeable and we don't have to do anything else. Go away."

"Felipe, I don't think Frollo—" Clopin tried.

"He's not here, is he?" Felipe teased.

"He is now," a voiced boomed around the dark tunnel.

Felipe jumped at the voice and then ran off, most likely intended to disappear until he was sure people had forgotten about the incident, as was his usual strategy to avoid anything from confronting his wife to doing much work.

"Who was that?" Frollo asked, joining the remaining gypsies in the torchlight. He began shaking his feet to rid them of as much sewage from his shoes as he could.

"Just some moron," Clopin said. "Ow!"

Frollo had grabbed Clopin's earrings, which he'd taken to wearing again, now that Giselle was able to care for Prince. "When I ask you about someone, I want names. Am I clear?"

"I think you taught this to my kid," Clopin replied. "His name is Felipe. He has no last name. He tends to steal chickens, well, he tries to. I think you tangled it in my hair."

"Much better; you two are coming with me," Frollo said, grabbing Clopin and Esmeralda by their shoulders and led them into the Court of Miracles.

"Are you mad?" Esmeralda asked.

"Not in the least," Frollo answered. "Yet."

"I wish you'd told me what you were doing before I went through a window," Clopin muttered.

"I'm going to ignore that for now," Frollo scolded. He dragged both gypsies up to the top of the gibbet, all others giving him as much room as they possibly could while still being able to watch, in case whatever Frollo was going to do was important and they'd need to remember it later, or maybe he'd just drop money.

Frollo released Clopin and Esmeralda and considered how he should start his speech, but gave up after three seconds. "If this stupid plan is going to work, I can't have you heathen ostracizing anyone! I want all of you where I can conveniently find you and I want to know who is in charge of this underground nuthouse, so that I know exactly who hasn't been keeping you people in line by noon tomorrow. I don't want to come back here again. Are there any questions, regardless of how simple these instructions are?"

Someone in the crowd waved their hand and then shouted something in Spanish.

"Felipe…" Clopin groaned.

"What did he say?" Frollo asked.

"He asked why you're wearing a dress."

"Fine. If anyone else has any questions, they can direct them to my wife," Frollo said. "I'm leaving, but I had better not hear of you people making anything more complicated for me after this."

……………………

Claude noticed, at a very young age, that life liked to throw strange occurrences at him. After a few more years, he learned that every one of these strange occurrences was caused by something else, which, in turn, was caused by something before that.

He never grew up into the man that his parents wished for, some well-muscled soldier whose stories of his own exploits would make women melt into his clothes or some other metaphor that sounded both ridiculous and unsanitary to him and alluring to others. Instead, Claude liked to watch, and, when people didn't bore the hell out of him with complete irrelevance of the nothingness in their lives they were obsessed with, to listen. Most strange occurrences were caused by someone having what they and their equally dimwitted friends thought was genius, but anyone smarter than a chicken could point out at least a dozen flaws in the plan.

Claude had made it a grand hobby of his to learn how different dimwits, individuals and groups, worked, and to find ways to prevent the bud of their idiocy blossoming into a city-wide disaster. The problem was, dimwits were dimwitted and yet their tiny minds still insisted on a type of logic, most of it made up and contradictory, but they'd follow it off a cliff.

Idiots were easy to predict, which was why Frollo occasionally stocked the barracks stables with cranky donkeys when he heard horse thefts were on the rise. Women rarely did anything and those who did tended to be easily dealt with if you treated them like men. That left him with the only problem he could not predict: gypsies. They had a strange sense of loyalty, half thought he was playing a game, the other half thought annoying him would make him stop arresting them, and they all thought it was unfair the French had a set of laws they had to listen to and couldn't just rifle through people's homes and walk off with what they wanted.

Gaetan's awkward parentage had turned out to be a blessing, however. True, he'd practically been handed a broken gift, but he'd sent Esmeralda and whateverhisnamewas to fix it. He didn't need to figure out several thousand pagans who thought it was more important to properly separate laundry than to respect property rights of people already living in the city. If anything happened, he now knew exactly whose ear to pull on until he got every answer he wanted about anything any one of them committed. He also had a way to keep the gypsies in line form the inside, and was very sure he'd inspected the situation form all angles.

Gaetan was loyal and dutiful, more than most soldiers. He could make her think like him and he could make her think it was all her own opinions. She wanted to be his ally and would side with him in a dispute between him and her family. But his little dog could be sent to sniff with the feral packs and play. Frollo had seen real dogs before, one establishing itself as alpha, even females, and then letting all the other dogs run around according to their own canine whims while it napped and not moving until one dog transgressed and asserting its power of the troublemaker to convince them and all other dogs that what had happened was a seriously bad idea no one should think of committing again. Gaetan would tell them to remember she was his apprentice as well as the King's daughter. They could try whatever they liked to get rid of her, but in the end, he'd win. If they attacked, he'd have them all killed. If they took away her power, she'd leave and give them hell. If they chased her away, she'd make them regret it. If they kicked out her eager father, Frollo would be having a bad day and when he had a bad day, Gypsies began to consider moving to another country.

Frollo had thought he had come up with every possible action any of the gypsies could possibly come up with, including deciding to have a little discussion with him over being so concerned about their welfare, with some bricks as guest speakers. For the first time since the New Year began, he felt comfortable and prepared for whatever insanity had decided to invite itself into his city start making itself at home.

This idea wouldn't manage to last the day, for just after he'd sent Gaetan to bed, telling her that if she ever felt upset, to run to the cathedral and to tell them all that either they'd agree to her terms or regret their own, Esmeralda entered the room.

She threw open the door and leapt from the doorway to him as soon as she noticed him in the hallway. She knocked him over on the floor, but this time her show of affection was a hug that seemed more like trying to strangle him while having missed the distinction between 'neck and 'waist.'

"I love you!" she said cheerfully, rubbing her face against his.

Frollo wondered what he was expected to do and what specifically she wanted and whether it was okay to enjoy himself despite the fact that his wife was crushing his kidneys and grooming him like her goat, who had decided to join in on the celebration, leaving him to know exactly what it was like to be a salt lick. Unbeknownst to him, the disaster of good-intentions was just beginning.


	38. What's Wrong with that?

Claude's usual position in his own bed had become lying on the edge, far from his wife, and to very slowly curl up in a small miserable ball that uncurled by morning. Despite feeling more comfortable in his independence to refuse to lie with his own wife, he wished for a chance to agree to it. As much as it was a relief that there were no emotional outbursts for the last week, Claude realized he could not live in a marriage the way his parents did, which meant he was faced with the unfortunate alternative of having to figure things out for himself, and hated that. Last time he did that, he'd gotten married.

Esmeralda's talk with him had given him no insight to his actual problem. While her good intentions had explained why everything that had happened on their official wedding night had gone the best way possible and that he shouldn't be embarrassed about doing things right, she had never explained how anyone went about accomplishing such things or what rules actually applied, other than that both parties had to agree throughout the act. In short, thinking about what he wanted physically had been less complicated when he had no idea what it was in the first place.

What made matters worse—and there was always something that made matters worse than what you initially thought about—was that if he could ever think of what to do, he had no idea under what circumstances he was allowed to do them under and he'd not just end up acting like an idiot, but she wouldn't love him anymore due to his mistake. The only thing he did know was that he should not try talking about it. That rule had been explained to him by at least a dozen people, including his commanding officer and both of his parents. His mother may have been lost in utter despair after losing her husband to murderers who were never captured and being stuck with a pitifully useless boy and no hope of a real family, but at least she did it right.

So he lay in bed again, wishing the blankets offered more comfort against the raging monster of his amalgam emotions and contemplating lying about working late so he could sleep in his quarters at his Palace of Justice because he'd somehow lost any potential at privacy in his own home. Sometimes, while nearly unconscious, he'd hold himself and struggle against his desire to roll over and grab hold of whatever part of Esmeralda was the first he'd encounter. His passion burning inside of him that he had to be ever-vigilant to constantly smother, often sending painful sensations of cold throughout his body, but more it was a fire that wanted to be matched by a flame that could burn just as brightly, just as hot, like the two doomed cities of Sodom and Gommorah glowing in their destruction.

Yet, through the confusion and fear and hurt, he was willing to wait. He'd tasted Heaven and he'd gladly wait as long as God wanted to give him another. All he had to do was hope and pray that his wife would notice or decide to deal with her own frustrations, which she could figure everything out about and he didn't.

One should always be careful what one prays for, because—like in this instance—someone may roll over and decide to answer those prayers.

"Claude?" Esmeralda asked, gently shaking his shoulder and pulling the covers off of him. Once she had figured out how, he was very easy to read. Her poor husband was lonely, waiting like a boy sent to his room and thinking his parents had forgotten about him, but not willing to cry out in case of further punishment. He was doing it again, probably because it was the only thing he knew to do. He'd wait until he either built up courage—or felt there was no other option other than severe disgrace and he'd better get it over with—or felt like hiding, seeking the comforting darkness and covers.

"Hm?" He was still unused to being called by his first name, but he could tell she wanted something, and it wasn't a horse. At the very least, there was the pleasing prospect of being held and keeping her warm if he did what she wanted.

There were no words. Words complicated things and confused him. Instead, she used the fact that she was facing her to press her lips against his. Instead of the usual game of cat-and-mouse, he pressed against her fiercely and wrapped his arms around her. He couldn't help it anymore, there was no other way for him to react to her advances and he couldn't restrain himself.

It got even better. She didn't disapprove. In fact, she put her hands behind his shoulders and pulled him towards her, rolling him over on top of her, making it easier for him to squirm over her and give him access to the rest of her body to kiss and caress.

He was in a frenzy. His mouth wanted to chase her heartbeat, following veins and heaving flesh, his hands wanted to be everywhere, to memorize every aspect of the experience before he went beck to his shadows and silence. There were no inhibitions now, he could do anything, he could do everything… except think.

His legs tangled in his long nightshirt, his exploring hands were nowhere to hold him above her, and so he toppled in a heap on top of Esmeralda's naked body. In that humiliating second, she acted like a compassionate angel to him. She said nothing, merely held him and propped them both up and encouraged him to continue when they were both sitting up. She still had to hold him up, for his hands still refused to take up that job while there was still parts of her and he had not perfectly mapped with his touch and again he twisted his baglike nightshirt into a tangle in his amorous squirming. He was being an idiot and it showed, but she still let him be an idiot; he kissed her, petted her, reveled in touching and holding parts of her, but went no further than letting his hands follow her curves and his mouth follow her moans.

After nearly losing his balance for the second time, he let Esmeralda slip the giant shapeless garments over his head and toss it between the bed and the curtains. He had no idea what was going to happen, but assumed Esmeralda would know what to do. His braies felt uncomfortably tight and had a wet stain on them. He doubted he could walk properly to the other room, but he wasn't going to relent to getting the bed filthy. Perhaps she knew some way of being quiet on the floor.

He put his hands in her hair, which had become as soft as dream of a cloud since she'd taken over his washroom and plundered his supplies—at that moment it was worth the sacrifice—and he awaited her demands. No matter how much his skin and mind burned for her, it could never be satisfied without her showing the same ferocity. He wanted to be matched, he wanted to be chased and battled and forced to admit defeat under another passion, he wanted to lose a fight and be rewarded by her flesh and the euphoria only she could give. At that moment he swore he'd give her anything to feel that again, but he thought too soon.

Esmeralda's hands slid under his undershirt, making his give out a moan that was cut off by a frightened gasp as he realized what she intended. He let go of her and pulled away. He batted her hands away from his vulnerable skin and grabbed his undershirt by the hem, pulling it down as far as it would go, suddenly determined to cover his cold and bare legs with it. He'd hit a dead end and there was no way to turn back. He should never have let her deprive him of his nightshirt, but he had let her lead him down that doomed alley. There had only been two embarrassing options, either she'd dislike him after seeing his gaunt and shameful nude figure or he'd make a fool of himself and prove his shame without even showing her and acting like a child.

Damn.

He could offer her everything better than she could in finery, he could offer her devotion of a saint, he could keep her warm and fed and clean, but only she could offer physical beauty. If he lost everything from his title, she could find someway to replace everything he could give her with rags and warm ashes and a little stream, but he could never give her what she was best at offering. His youth had been lost in a distant fire and his color had ebbed away as he watched what was left of his family reprimand and wither as he was unable to stop either. Beneath his fine robes of silk and velvet and linen no one else had to know about the scars or how his skin had come to resemble a bleached and creased blanket, but now she wanted that secret revealed.

He closed his eyes and tried to steel himself as he felt her hand on his cheek. He wanted to give her whatever it would take to keep her at his side, believing he was the only one who could give her the gifts she truly desired. He inhaled, trying to find the hope that she hadn't been driven away, that he hadn't lost her to disgust… but he couldn't find it anywhere. He was answered by nothing but silence and cold despair down to his bones and the quiet part of his brain that kept nightmares at bay. There was no answer of such hope and so his hands tore themselves from what was left of his clothes and in the darkness of his own bed he began to sob into them.

Knowing nothing else to do, Esmeralda held him close and gently stroked his back every now and then.

The problem is, if you give someone the ability to choose for themselves, they will make that choice based on the silliest of things, or at least silly in front of someone who is going to find them silly. Without the ability, people are stupid, unhappy, and mean, which makes one wonder exactly what was so great about Eden until you realized there was only one other human and a lot of room to put between you and them; in short, the perfection God created was the ability to be completely alone, but to have someone else to talk to and not feel stupid about it (at least until one had finished). But if you take away someone's right to choose, they act as if you've taken a lot more from them.

…………………..

The night had not gone as Esmeralda had planned, and she had many things planned for the night. The only thing that was going right was that Claude was contentedly curled up against her, fast asleep. This was more of an afterthought than a plan. In fact, it was merely an extension of each of her many plans.

Esmeralda had expected a snag or two, but she hadn't expected a road block. She had expected to stay up most of the night explaining things to him. She hadn't expected to end up in a situation where she couldn't explain anything.

She had wanted some fun. She had wanted to show him how fun fun could be. She wanted to know what he thought would be even more fun, if he ever understood it was possible. The problem was that something was taking all the fun out of fun, and the problem seemed to be her.

……………………….

"Clopin, this place smells," Giselle complained as Clopin lead her through the sewers. "I don't like it here."

"You'll get used to it," Clopin said. "Besides, there are other tunnels you can use if you want to leave."

"If I want to leave?" Giselle loudly exclaimed. Although she thought Clopin had gone nuts from sniffing the fumes from the glue factory, she was glad he was holding the baby, for she would have dropped the baby in her surprise. Giselle couldn't fathom any reason to live underground near the sewers where many neighbors were dead and not want to leave later than immediately.

"I'm trying to sleep," Felipe complained back from his ledge. Clopin had wasted his time in a long discussion about letting Giselle down into the Court of Miracles, given that she was his wife and should finally be let to live with him. Felipe was unconvinced until Clopin agreed to trade him a chicken for letting the woman stay indefinitely. There was just no fixing some people; the poor man didn't even know how to take a bribe properly.

"Clopin, I want to go home," Giselle pleaded.

"That's silly, you don't want to go back there," Clopin said. Her home was where she had a horrible job sleeping with horrible other men and the horrible landlady chased Clopin with a broom and told Giselle to ditch the baby because customers didn't want to be reminded about what sex was meant to be for. Consequences took all the fun out of sins.

"See?" Clopin said with a flourish as they walked through a doorway. "This is much better, isn't it?" Spread out in the eternal darkness of the catacombs, were hundreds of little tents, through which thousands of people moved about. Women shooed livestock and children, men kissed them and left t work, which most often was only a few feet away. Someone was hanging multi-colored laundry and someone else was arguing with them. The whole thing looked like a giant circus of housework.

Giselle whimpered, as Clopin happily said he'd show her to the tent she'd be staying in. She wanted to go back to the brothel; at least when toothless old men gave her blankly confused looks, she knew what they wanted.

……………………..

"We're almost there," Esmeralda said, trying to lighten the mood, which, thanks to Gaetan, was blacker than Frollo's robes in lightless cave. Esmeralda had never seen any of the dark moods Gaetan had learned on her own, but had perfected by watching her master at work. Now, however, he seemed preferable company, no matter how bad a day he was having. Esmeralda had led the girl to the Court of Miracles in silence the whole trip, and it seemed even furniture wanted to get out of her way. Now, even though their only company was Felipe, who was just waking up, it seemed even the skeletons were backing away to avoid Gaetan

"Halt! Who—Aaah!" Felipe screamed, jumping back from Gaetan's angry glare before he hit the ground.

Felipe was one of those strange people who answered two of the oldest theological conundrums ever posed, and disappointed clergy with them. Although he'd been built with a strong body and near-perfect symmetry, free-will and the fact that it seemed every bit of his ancestors once having bittern from the tree of knowledge had been bred out of him at least two generations ago made him a living testament to the horrific effect of Empty Mind of God-Created Matter which gave every part of him a deceivingly lopsided look. He had only a few expressions: bravado that insinuated he was trying to lead another crusade, panic, blank confusion, and either thinking he had a thought or trying to put together a complete sentence longer than three words together—it was hard to tell which, especially for him—and his body was always prepared to act on these, along with different versions of running away, each in their own distinct direction. His limbs looked uneven, his joints looked backwards, and his face was a warning sign to all to make sure his hands were empty and to recheck the contents of their pockets every half-minute. Although everything lined up with precision that would give angels headaches, his expression shoved his face around the same way taking one bundle of socks out of a neatly organized drawer turns the entire thing into a messy heap. His eyes both crossed and tried to look the other way when he tried to think hard, which was almost every time someone spoke to him, his nose had forgotten its original shape and went with the design it had been punched into from dozens of fights, and his mouth seemed more interested in forming shapes when it was closed than when he was actually speaking, accented by an asymmetrically shaved beard.

Even his hair betrayed the fact that although whatever contents of his head had rattled around too hard and fallen out a long time ago, complicated questions like 'what do you think you're doing?' could take up your whole day with him and catching him could take the whole of the next. Any soldier who tried to grab him by his long hair wound up falling in a mud puddle that seemed to follow the man like a dangerous lover, a bakers dozen of different dark colors all over their hands, and sometimes a disease Jacques didn't want them tracking into his hospice. Cleaning the filthy mane either resulted in him dripping a slick black oil behind him for days and hardened the mess to a brick like texture the same way pouring water on a fine powder such as dry cement or flour does not return to the softness it started with. Attempting to work the mystery substance from his hair had the same results and changed nothing, save for the additional work of having to spend a day filing the black substance off your hands in order to ever move them again. The only hope for the hair was a slim possibility of using a hammer, the wider range of possibilities consisted of being stuck with a useless stick, metal shards, and the same hair you started with in a matter of minutes. There was a question among the soldiers and the gypsies of whether his hair was actually black, or if it had been painted that way throughout his badly executed escapades.

There was one thing Felipe was good at, and that was having most everything fly over his head, and everything else just grazed it. Anyone else, in broad daylight would have done the math in their head and calculated that purely standing near the girl was too dangerous for one's health. In the dark with flickering candlelight reflected back in angry eyes and off polished armor and weapons, which had been sharpened—if there was a way to sharpen armor against someone, she would have done that too—they would have taken one look at the problem, forfeited solving it, run away, and asked directions to the next city. Felipe's mind scribbled the formula of contemplating Gaetan, the servant of a man so dangerous and insidious he could not only scare people into taking up drinking, but into sobriety as well, and with a good reason to hold a worse grudge against gypsies than her master. His mind took its time, missing several important bits and putting some metaphorical symbols backwards, and then gave up, realizing it was too far out of its league already.

"Someone under arrest?" Felipe asked. Things made the most sense to him if divided into 'danger' and 'ignorable.'

"They could be," Gaetan said, crossing her arms.

Felipe considered this. 'Could be dangerous' was not something he put much thought into. Or any thought, for that matter.

"You will be if you don't get out of my way."

If he let her through, no one was under arrest, so she had no point in being here. If he did not let her through, someone—most importantly him—was under arrest and thus she had a point in being here in which case he could let her through, but then no one was under arrest…

"You going to kill someone?" That was the only alternative Felipe could think of, but it left him with the same paradox.

"Only if my visit's anything like last time," Gaetan answered, still angry enough to scare gargoyles off a church.

"So, why are you here?" Felipe asked. He was going to get a complicated answer involving more than one sentence. He hated those.

"I'm here to visit my father," Gaetan replied. Esmeralda wondered why someone seemingly angry enough to radiate her own hellish heat could talk so icily and also envied Felipe for not being able to care.

"He ain't here," Felipe answered simply. Even he could identify colors and knew parents passed them on to their kids. No one here was colored like her.

"Clopin is my father," Gaetan replied. She was looking forward to getting back to mass.

At this, Felipe burst into laughter so uncontrollable, he nearly fell over twice trying to move out of Gaetan's way. "She's funnier than the other one," he managed when he was leaning against the wall of the tunnel, unsuccessfully using it to hold himself up. "Next time she should say you're her sister, Esmeralda!"

Ignoring Felipe, who was thinking he should have asked for a good joke from Clopin rather than a chicken, the two continued on.

………………………………

When people find there is a new and strange person in what was formerly their cozy and familiar neighborhood, some people try to get rid of them, and some people try to pretend they aren't there and that the problem will solve itself. Unbeknownst to either of these parties, neither strategy works without the authorities helping you out or doing your work for you.

No one wanted to try the first option, given how much trouble that had caused and because the authorities were in no way on their side in the situation. So everyone opted to ignore Giselle and hope she'd move out as soon as possible.

Then the authorities arrived and the neighborhood was never the same again.

Despite the fact that he could barely scare the chickens he attempted to steal, Felipe's echoing laughter just made the scene of the apprentice, now looking even more like her master, with her new hat covering most of her untamable hair, an expression that could strike flying birds from the air with a glance, and her giant, over-sized clothes, though held down by armor, resembled Frollo's giant flowing gown. She was followed by Esmeralda, who was dressed in her usual clothes and bangles, and even wore a traditional diklo Clopin had found for her. She had to keep up appearances as Frollo's wife, but now and then, she had to keep up appearances of being herself. Secretly, Esmeralda wondered what would happen if these appearances couldn't be kept up anymore and fell down in a heap, what would they reveal?

Save for the two have of the reunited family, everyone thought five minutes ago would be a great time to be somewhere else.

"See, I told you I'd make it work out!" Clopin said, waving his free hand as if he'd conjured Frollo's women himself. His other hand was doing a magic trick of holding prince safely, yet out of reach of anything the baby would try to tear off of him. "What, no hug?" Clopin asked, staring despairingly at both the girls in front of him. "Well, someone say 'hello,' at least; all this time I thought you two missed each other."

"Um.." Gaetan tried, and stopped her from failing any worse, or at least feeling so. To Frollo, she was now a man, but whatever significant difference that made, she had yet to find out. To everyone else, she was just a boy with way too much authority and skill at ruining their day. Everyone may know that she is—and always was—a girl, but she never learned much as a girl. As a boy she learned more than she ever conceived of as a poor peasant whose job was to wash tables and avoid customers so real women could get to them or to avoid knife fights. As a girl, she was underfoot, burdensome, dirty, and stupid. As a boy, she was useful, important, well-groomed, and learned, but this situation was something she had never learned as either gender, or in any situation. She knew how to run away, but she didn't know how to come back. In fact, she had run away from coming back. Well, Frollo did say to at least try to get along… "Momma," Gaetan said meekly, taking off her hat.

Giselle, who also had no clue how to address the situation, just hugged Gaetan.

"See? I told you two this would happen!" Clopin cheered, wishing he had more to do with it.

Meanwhile, someone from the crowd of bystanders bravely tugged on Esmeralda's sleeve for attention and asked what was happening when he got it, distracting her from what was a very dangerous situation.

"Momma, what's wrong?" Gaetan asked.

"Um, Giselle?" Clopin asked. Things weren't supposed to be going wrong. Not yet; nothing had happened.

Giselle, who had started crying, pulled out of the hug and turned to Clopin. "My poor baby girl! Look at her!"

"What?" Clopin asked. "It's the right one, right?"

"Just look at her!" Giselle said, grabbing her daughter and holding her as if for display.

"I am. Trust me, she's still a she under all that—stop glaring at me like that, it wasn't my fault!"

"She looks like me!" Giselle cried.

Clopin stared hard. Giselle was a very definite hourglass shape, though a short one. Gaetan was a very definite dandelion shape, debatably a rose given the amount of sharp objects on her belt and the others no doubt hidden on her person. As cute as it was to compare girls to flowers, Clopin was sure Gaetan's father could fit through a closed door given the differences between the two women. Coming to the conclusion that he had no idea what Giselle was going on about, Clopin shrugged, Prince giggling as he was bounced in his father's arms, disappointed that he couldn't vomit in appreciation.

"So… what's the problem?" Clopin asked. One kid, alive and with all parts where they were supposed to be and unscathed—quite possibly with a bit more parts than she started, but he wasn't going to check and he didn't want to know—and it was the right one. What detail was he forgetting?

"I want a daughter! I thought you were going to fix things!" Giselle wailed. "I couldn't say anything against the archdeacon or the minister, they're scary and powerful—"

"I don't want to be fixed!" Gaetan yelled. "Everyone's stupid and horses stink and its too loud in the bedroom and cook hates salt and I have to go places I hate like here, but I did it so you'd never have to be in the brothel or jail and I didn't want you to be here either but it doesn't matter because you hate me now!"

"About 'scary and powerful'—" Clopin whispered to Giselle.

Esmeralda turned her attention to the impending doom while the crowd continued to chatter.

"I hate everything!" Gaetan screamed, spinning around and running off as her words echoed in the sewers, muffling the sound of Felipe being violently shoved to the side.

Giselle burst into tears and Clopin looked from her to the empty tunnel and shoved Prince into her arms and took off before Esmeralda knew what he was doing.

"Wait!" Esmeralda screamed, but all she heard was another sound of Felipe being thrown out of the way and hitting the wall again.

"Who are you?" Giselle asked, still crying. What was her husband doing with a woman wearing an apron on her head, an attractive one at that?

"I'm… sort of his daughter," Esmeralda answered, knowing how much trouble the word 'friend' would get her into in this situation. "Um… about 'scary and powerful' people… have you ever slept with one of them?"


	39. The Happiest Home in these Hills

Gaetan fled from the Court of Miracles and chose to take refuge in the cathedral. This was just as good, for Frollo was not at home yet, still attending mass. She ran the whole way, circling around the back in hopes that Clopin would give up the chase, but also not to cause any more trouble. It was, after all, her fault negotiations—or whatever she was supposed to be doing—went sour.

Of all the fighting skills Frollo has taught Gaetan, she realized running away was not one of them. The only reason he had not caught up with her yet was because wanted to avoid her at all costs—especially now that she was a she. Most of the townspeople looked at her the same way they did the gypsies, but no one got in her way. She was, after all, still Frollo's apprentice, and his beloved excuse to start trouble.

By the time she was through the back gate into the cathedral, however, he had almost caught up.

Finally, Clopin grabbed Gaetan and spinning her around to face him.

For a while, he just panted, trying to catch his breath while still holding her shoulders.

"What in the world is going on down here?" they heard the archdeacon yell as he approached.

"Nothing!" both exclaimed, backing away from each other. Gaetan didn't feel anyone whose bright idea was what ruined her in her mother's eyes could do anything but make things worse. Clopin didn't want any more family members handed over to Frollo, no matter how well the minister took care of them. The two walked away in separate directions without so much as a backwards glance. 'So much for thinking God could help this time,' they both thought.

…………..

"Slept with one of them?" Giselle asked, taken aback. "Just what are you insinuating? I'm married!"

"So am I!" Esmeralda retorted immediately. "You have your own."

The two women stared at each other in utter bafflement. Esmeralda turned back to Giselle, who—against all odds, considering her size—was looking rather small, and—easily, given her mind—very scared. "Why don't we go inside and sit down?" Esmeralda said, not actually caring if the woman wanted to or not. She pulled Giselle into Clopin's tent.

"This is 'inside?'" Giselle asked, looking around. Her expression showed she was thinking the same question as Esmeralda did when she finally got to look around the rest of the house: What was it with men and not understanding the concept of decoration?' The tent was brightly colored, but that was misleading. One would think they were entering some circus tent and the inside would be even more colorful and flamboyant. But all there was were the bed made of a blanket and a sorry looking pillow and clothes and puppets strewn about the floor, most kicked to one side.

"It's not that bad," Esmeralda said. "I grew up in here for years before I moved into my own tent. It's a lot better than… you know…"

"Um," Giselle said tentatively. "When did Clopin have a child? He told me he didn't have any when I met him—well, when he was sober the next day. He also said I was the first woman he felt seriously about."

"Oh," Esmeralda said, suddenly understanding at least half of the other woman's plight. "Oh. No, I'm not really his daughter. My parents died when I was three and he adopted me. We're more like friends."

"Oh," was all Giselle answered with.

'And he complains about me and Frollo' Esmeralda scoffed mentally. 'Is she that good in bed?'

"So I'm not your mother?" Giselle asked meekly.

"Of course not. Kind of. Maybe…" Esmeralda said. "Let me think about this… Well, everyone asked Clopin when they wanted to marry me and he chased them away for me. I guess I am then."

Giselle smiled. For the first time since Esmeralda had met her, Giselle was happy. Giselle hugged Esmeralda as best she could, being much shorter than her new 'daughter.' "You can teach your sister how to do things right, then!"

"Um… what?" Esmeralda asked.

"Now that Clopin and I are married, Gaetan's his little… something and you're my daughter now."

"I mean I don't want to know all that, but what do you mean 'teach her how to do things right?'" Esmeralda asked, suddenly shocked. Just because their parents got together didn't mean they had to be related. And when did this all turn into more work?

"You can teach her how to be a girl again and maybe she'll even be a lady like you."

"But I don't know anything!" Esmeralda.

"You knew how to get a rich man," Giselle said, patting Esmeralda encouragingly on the back.

"Shouldn't she get married to someone she loves?" Esmeralda asked. "Like you did?"

Giselle sighed. "I want my daughter to get married for something better."

"Better than romance?" Esmeralda asked. That was the best anyone could hope for to her. It was one of those things you dreamed about along with finding hidden treasure or being invited to wonderful banquets.

"Love can't get you anywhere," Giselle said sadly. "People only get married for romance when they can't get anything better. I thought you knew that, considering who you married."

"But I like Claude!" Esmeralda said, trying to defend both herself and her ideals. "He's… well, he… I… I like…he thinks I'm beautiful and he's devoted and he likes to make me happy and gives me things."

"Of course he does," Giselle said. "Gaetan's father gave me presents all the time. He wants something, that's all. Just let him have it, it's not that bad."

Esmeralda had no idea how to react, but at the mention of Gaetan's father, she suddenly understood. Love didn't keep you warm or fed or keep you out of a brothel. In fact, love gave you a kid that made you stay that way. If you were always going to be in the gutter, it was nice to have someone else to spend you time in it with. She wanted her daughter to move out of the gutter and didn't understand that the kid had already done that.

"You… you don't blame him, do you?" Esmeralda asked.

"It was my fault for believing him. It's not his fault he didn't love me," Giselle said.

"It's…" Esmeralda muttered. Now she was confused. She liked presents. She liked… the other stuff she could make him give her; he was pretty good for a beginner. But she loved him… didn't she? Giselle said it wasn't her fault if she didn't and she did still think of him as a pretty, shiny toy. Was that bad? How could she tell if she loved him? "I need to sit down."

Giselle helped Esmeralda sit on the floor of the tent.

"Can you… I mean, I know we just met but I thought you… If you don't mind… We are married so we can if we want to, but he doesn't want to—I mean he doesn't want to do this… Do men ever make sense?"

……………………

As a child, Claude Frollo was impervious to rumors. His features matched his parents perfectly. He was a healthy and inquisitive child, and a laudably quiet one. His parents had tutors educate him as best as possible, not wanting him to pick up disrespectful habits of rowdy school children. He was a quiet and attentive child and his parents felt blessed.

However, when he turned the proper age to be looking for a young wife, everything went wrong. He tripped, he stuttered, he froze, he had no idea how to reply to the most mundane things, and he failed at whatever amusement the girls wanted to partake in. Suddenly he'd stepped on an angry nest of rumors and they flitted about, stinging him mercilessly.

So, after his mother degradingly, yet mercilessly pulled him from a life of such abuse, he kept rumors away by never doing anything interesting. He studied boring topics, he went to an uninteresting, yet very academic universities. He took up a job which had no one to sleep with to obtain, and now and then kicked people out of the dungeons to make sure people thought only the right kind of torture went on in them.

The rumors about Gaetan were short-lived, thanks to his orders to assault and arrest anyone telling them in her vicinity—in that order.

However, the decades he had put off even looking at women had staled his skills that already amounted to nothing more than incompetence of how to deal with dealing with them. In short, he had no idea how much trouble a wedding could get him into, especially one that was supposed to get him out of trouble.

Claude fell into that narrow crack, a line that separated nobility from commoners, one that was growing thinner and thinner in the midst of confused immigration, even more confused wars, and in the determined feud between the aristocracy and the merchants. He was important enough to get most people on the streets in trouble, but if he weren't so determined at his job, most people wouldn't know his name. The rich barely knew he existed, while the poor whished he didn't. He was rich enough to be able to read, but not enough to hire someone else to do it for him. The rest of society forgot about him and thus he appreciated his place in it.

Someone was going to go poking through that crack for change. What made it all better for them, was that Claude, despite his literally upright adherence to propriety and the strict rules he imposed on Gaetan and tried to suggest to his wife, he had not had any contact with nobility since his mother died, save for the few sad written letters. He thought he had escaped the excessive preening and odd courtship displays, the incessant territorial chirping of boring conversations, and most of all the loud squawking of people laughing at him. But someone had been watching him like a lazy hawk all these long, angry years, and suddenly, like an arrogant field mouse, he'd begun to move.

……………………

It had become common knowledge that if Clopin was in his puppetstand on Sundays, he was sulking. If he wasn't sulking, he was either in the brothel (though not always legally), or trying to avoid caring for Prince, someone how prophetically foretelling when the child's screams were at the point of breaking glass (sometimes he hid in the brothel).

"Go away, we're closed," he scolded, as he heard someone behind him.

Timidly, like a dog that knew the mess it had made on the carpet had driven its owners to kick it out of the house, Gaetan peered around the side.

"You're not going to bite me, are you?" he asked, his mood not improving.

Gaetan shook her head.

"Then… I don't know, stay there I guess," he said sullenly. "Look, I know I'm supposed to be the one you talk to in situations like this… well, this specifically doesn't usually come up, but... well, you're an okay kid when you're not… um… Here, just watch my mope, it tends to cheer Frollo up." The whole thing had sounded a lot better in his head. But then again, he hadn't really thought up an ending to what he was going to say.

"I thought you were going to take care of her," Gaetan said softly, close to tears..

"For someone quiet, you don't have much tact," Clopin replied, mildly caustically.

"You don't understand," Gaetan said, suddenly pleading. "I thought this would work. I thought that if I was with this job long enough, I'd get enough money to help Momma and she'd never get in anymore trouble. I thought I could fix all this. But now she's in trouble. He said to tell him if anyone had any problems with me being part of your group."

"Did he send you to keep us in line because you're his apprentice and my kid?"

"Yes," she squeaked. She sniffled and wiped an eye. "But—"

"It's something I would have thought up," he said. He sighed. Well, at least part of the world was getting back to the way he knew it.

"Look, you're mother's just adjusting to things. She'll get used to this stuff eventually. The Court of Miracles isn't such a bad place to be—you're a bad example. Esmeralda grew up there."

"I want my money back," Gaetan complained.

"Okay, so she's a bad example too," Clopin consented. "Look, I grew up there. Your brother is growing up there and the worst he did was swallow three francs. I'm not helping, am I?" Clopin asked, noticing Gaetan still looked upset.

"You don't understand," Gatean complained. "I like being a boy. I'm good at it. It's not that bad."

"Nice compliment." Clopin already had a sickening feeling wondering who was right in the current conflict. Either his loving wife was wrong or someone who was permanently on the bad side of nearly everyone in the city was right. Either Gaetan quit and the money ran out and Frollo was going to start doing things a bit more personally, or he the minister owned his kid. At the moment, Clopin didn't need anyone telling him his gender was a nice place for a holiday.

"I meant the job!"

"Yeah, this conversation doesn't look like it's going anywhere too cheerful any time soon," Clopin commented. Was making things worse a skill Frollo had taught her, or did he keep her around because she already knew how? "Why are you talking to me about this? I honestly don't care."

"Because you're the one who doesn't deserve what'll happen!" Gaetan said, trying to explain finally. She still had a long way to go.

This time Clopin kept his mouth shut; he didn't want to somehow deserve it by asking what was wrong with Esmeralda. Her statement clearly piqued his interest and his expression alone was all the prompt she needed to continue.

"He said that if anyone wanted to make trouble, I was to tell him, and he'd—well, all he said was that he'd deal you all of you until the trouble went away. I did this and I gave you money and it was all to make momma happy and now she hates me and now she'll get into trouble because of it!" Gaetan said before taking another breath. "I can't quit because of him, and that means she'll never like me again and that means—"

"--it's just like last year." Clopin finished her sentence.

"Huh?"

"I'll explain later." Hopefully there wouldn't be a later, because so far there wasn't an explanation. Not with her. She was Frollo's little Joan D'Arc and he was… some country he'd never learned the name of. Stupid history repeating itself; there had to be a way to keep that from happening. "Have you ever considered lying to the guy?"

"I can't."

"Look, kid—"

"I'm a bad liar."

Clopin remembered the first month Gaetan had been around: what dangerous thing did didn't fall off, she fell on and it was a wonder she survived. The only reason she made a convincing boy was because she was already a lousy girl. She was horrible at pretending she liked people, she was incompetent at tact, and despite her size, there was nothing dainty about her movements when she started. She was indeed as bad at lying as Felipe was at stealing chickens.

"So, I take it I'm not included in 'everything' when you said you hated everything."

Gaetan shook her head.

"I guess that's an improvement," Clopin muttered, setting his pointed chin on his crossed arms.

"Do you think she'll ever be happy?" Gaetan asked.

"I hope so, she's got my other kid," Clopin replied.

"Because I don't want to. Ever." Gaetan said.

"You may be a bad liar, but you're worse at explaining things," Clopin said. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Again."

"She wants me to get married," Gaetan said, as happy with the idea as a pig was with plum sauce. "He told me that was the first thing you'd try to do to get back at him."

Clopin wasn't sure if he felt like laughing or killing himself. He opted for moving his arms and slamming his face against the platform of the puppetstand. No wonder the blonde captain did this a lot.

Who'd want to marry Malarrimo, the angry, assertive, cunning little wolverine of a girl and second only to the minister himself in law enforcement? Most everyone smart enough not to think they could tell her what to do by ordering her around. Who'd want to be an in-law to Claude Frollo, a man who had the sense of humor as a bolt of lightning and was less liked than one—Clopin had forced himself not to think about the fact that he'd already made that mistake—no one smarter than a dead tree. It was a debate that would last beyond the end of time. "He thinks I'd marry you off to someone so that you'd have to do whatever your husband says and possibly quit altogether?" Clopin did his best to sound offended; Esmeralda had suggested it numerous times and half the times he'd considered finding some sort of bribe to make her promise nothing new would happen. Too late, apparently.

"I think he might have mentioned kids," Gaetan said.

Giselle was confusing. Gaetan had already started a war and might start another without actually trying to do anything but keep her stomach from churning. Another generation? With Frollo still teaching her? With Esmeralda trying to help? "You are never allowed to have children, do you hear me?" Clopin demanded, his head still down because he lacked the care to move it yet. He tried to point menacingly at Gaetan, but the gesture not only fell flat on it's face, but drowned in a nosebleed as not only him not moving in his despair, but that he missed Gaetan's direction and ended up pointing at Abra, who excreted in the street as a pathetic gesture of contempt for him.

For a moment, Clopin thought, 'They were right. I should have left Giselle long before anything got too dangerous.' Then he thought 'Well, at least those bastards that said that and caused this trouble are going to the gibbet and I'm not. That's better, right? …Right?' Eventually, after thinking 'I never realized how cheerful staring at woodgrain was compared to some things,' he felt a tugging on his sleeve. For a split second he wondered if he knew anywhere to hide bodies, but then remembered how bad his luck was and decided that if he did know, it was already occupied.

Clopin looked up at Gaetan, who'd been tugging on his sleeve for several minutes. "Thank you," she said, obviously hoping to make things better as well as express honesty.

Clopin reached over and patted her hair, actually managing to improve it, before grabbing her in a one-armed hug. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Maybe," she answered.

"Tell me when any of this starts making sense."

"But that could take years," Gaetan warned.

"Obviously," Clopin answered


	40. Let Me be Good to You

The only person known to have a worse attitude than Claude Frollo was his cook. No one noticed that because her job was not to get directly involved in people's problems, she never mentioned them unless they brought them to her; thusly no one wondered that if Claude had ever taken up a different vocation, would he perhaps be more amiable (or less intrusive and seen as the same thing). Though most people in Paris had heard stories of her bad temper, her skills in combat regarding kitchen utensils, and even the fact that she gave Frollo a tirade or two, no one paid her any mind and merely thought of her as a reclusive old lady—which she was. Anyone who made the mistake of coming round to Frollo's house made the mistake of talking to her.

The Archdeacon of Notre Dame never quite learned that although he was in charge of most of it, some people would talk back. Frollo learned this and this is why anyone who talked to him made sure he couldn't reach them to kick them in the face—though it was still a bad idea. The archdeacon had never mastered the temper that Frollo and his cook worked hard at, nor the attitude and ability to ignore others that Jacques had acquired. Due to this failing, Frollo had to rescue the poor man from the angry woman just as he was backing in having perfected his art of not being responsible for other people's stupidity.

Frollo's cook (whom no one, not even her employer could remember her name), decided to express her opinion on the faith to the hapless archdeacon. She was devout, possibly moreso than Frollo, and told both the archdeacon and Frollo several times about how wrong it was for him to have married Esmeralda. She had never once broken any of God's laws, and felt this gave her the right to complain and expect those who tried to help spread His word to send her opinion back the other way.

"May I interrupt in order to know exactly why are you here?" Frollo interjected.

His cook left, apparently done with giving her constructive criticism to the unfortunate middle-man, giving both men a nasty scowl that Frollo had yet to achieve such viciousness.

"I really wish your wife would rub off on you instead," the archdeacon muttered, trying desperately to remember why he was here in the first place.

'She's certainly been doing some rubbing,' Frollo thought to himself. "I assume I'm in some sort of trouble." If he wasn't before, he was now thanks to his cook and his wife's goat eating his surplice (and having done so for the last several minutes by the looks of things).

"I told you that if there was any trouble with your apprentice she was going straight back to her parents and out of your hands!" the archdeacon yelled at Frollo. "

"No, you said that if there was any problem I can't handle," Frollo corrected. "Whatever happened I will deal with it immediately once I hear from her and this time I will not let my wife distract me from—" Putting all his concentration in addressing the archdeacon had kept him from noticing Esmeralda racing down the streets so fast she slammed him against the side of the house as she embraced him and started to cry.

The archdeacon began to chuckle and began to coax his clothes from Djali.

"Giselle said you only like me and give me things because you want one thing—oo! Let's do that!"

"Esmeralda, it's Sunday, we can't," Claude said, trying to untangle his wife enough so that he wasn't pressed up against several uncomfortable bricks. He shot an angry glance at the archdeacon, indicating that whatever was going on, it was at least partially his fault for not teaching her any manners.

"We can't have fun on Sundays?" Esmeralda asked.

"Not that kind of fun," Frollo said, wondering if the archdeacon had talked to her about anything and understanding if the man had decided to skip it after one sentence from her.

"What if we do something else entirely?" she asked, her playful teasing of tracing a small circle just under his collarbone was forgotten in the wake of the bricks seemingly pushing his spine in ways it was not meant to go.

'There's a "something else?"' Claude wondered. Esmeralda may have insisted that her 'talk' was important, but all explained was that it was not a chore, but a choice—for her it seemed like a hobby to him. She explained about how both participants had to be thoroughly enjoying themselves and how that made it more fun for the other person. Claude had more mechanics explained to him by Jacques, and due to the speaker and context, made the act seem like a torture session in the dungeons. "No, not even that."

"What if we just—"

"Esmeralda, no one is allowed to do anything on Sundays!" Frollo exclaimed. 'There was a "just?" What in the world had she not told him?'—On second thought, he decided it was safer not to know and just wait for further instructions on a less holy day.

"I think I'll go now," the archdeacon sheepishly excused himself.

'Well, all that gibberish was good for something' Frollo thought to himself and smiled. "Is this about a horse?" he asked as he opened the door to the house.

……………….

Clopin and Gaetan reluctantly went back to their respective homes.

Gaetan took dinner up to the main hall, her fears of being hounded with questions left with her apetite as she opened the door to see Esmeralda jump up off of Frollo's lap and they both began straightening their clothes while pretending they had been standing around for the last few hours.

Gaetan set the food on the table without making eye contact with either of them.

Frollo was the only one enjoying the meal, most likely gloating to the females, including the one who complained that no one would feed her under the table.

At last, Esmeralda, with the skills at empathy and diplomacy she thought were perfect, broke the silence.

"I spoke with your mother after you ran off," she said, undaunted by the fact that her cheerfulness just worsened Gaetan's mood, just like always. "All she said was that she wanted you to act like a lady so we just…" Esmeralda trailed off. She hadn't noticed either Frollo's or Gaetan's expressions, but suddenly thought of trying to teach Gaetan to be ladylike. The only balls she could throw were made of snow. The girl might as well have been born of the roughness of riding, but that wasn't the kind of lady Giselle had meant. It was impossible to think of Gaetan ever wearing a dress, even a small version of Frollo's. "We just have to try and convince her you can get married without being a lady."

"Meanwhile, you are to stay away from those gypsies until they change their minds," Frollo said. If there was going to be a conversation at his table, he was going to keep it from deteriorating into silly sugary garbage. The only time he would allow that sort of stuff in his house would be if the goat were eating it.

"But it's only one person!" Esmeralda complained.

"Then she should have put more thought into harassing my apprentice before she got everyone else in trouble," Frollo answered nonchalantly.

"It's my mother," Gaetan blurted out, barely keeping her voice from breaking and not at all thinking about talking back until it was too late. Stupid gypsy; she started it. "How can I keep her out of trouble if I can't be near her?"

"It sounds as if she's already gotten too many rebellious ideas," Frollo answered. They were already doing damage. They were teaching his apprentice to be rebellious and to start getting her own ideas. She was supposed to be smart and cunning, but in no way was she supposed to think she was her own person. They were worse than Phoebus, at least he didn't break his things. "If she's going to try and turn you against me, you most certainly can't go near them. If they are going to attempt anything against you or me I am going to tell my soldiers to be wary of them. I'm not going to risk anyone, and that's final."

"But I never told you what happened," Gaetan said, trying not to sound like she was complaining.

"Esmeralda told me already," Frollo said, returning to his dinner. "She's already talked to the woman; I'm sure she can straighten things out."

"But it's not fair!" Esmeralda complained. This dinner wasn't going her way at all. Sundays really weren't fun.

"It is entirely fair," Frollo said. "No one is to be arrested with due cause. The last time I was lax on your friends when they hated my apprentice, they nearly killed all of us. If you want people to stop making trouble in the first place, that is not my job. My job is when people have already made trouble." Frollo turned to his apprentice, who didn't know which side to take and was leaning towards the goat to avoid a fight. "And you are not getting married. I am going to do everything in my power to see to that."

There. Everything was back to normal. Esmeralda was mad at him, Gaetan trusted him only, and Phoebus was going to complain about the soldiers harassing the gypsies. Oh yes, this year had been off to a wonderful start, why did he need a repeat halfway through?

………………

Gaetan had since gone to sleep in her corner and the few bits of furniture had been moved to divide the room, to give bother her and Claude privacy. Claude had his hands full as he changed into his nightshirt and Esmeralda took advantage of the fact by holding the curtains open to watch. She knew she made him uncomfortable, but that was what made the game so fun. She loved watching him squirm under her hungry gaze, or do his best not to squirm as his eyes showed how much he wanted to. She could see his anticipation, waiting for her to grab at him in someway, waiting for that horrifying short moment where he still didn't know what to expect from her.

This was a new game. She'd terrified him enough and the moments had lasted too long since their talk. She could feel the cold tingle go down his spine when she pressed her lips against, his, but instead of a warmth ebbing over it, he remained colder and stiffer than he was before, and she could sense how much he wanted to put a tiny distance between them instead of closing the gap entirely and feeling as one person with two heartbeats. This time she'd just watch. She'd let him get used to her being calm on occasion. His constant far took the real surprise away anyway. Sometimes the best way to play with a pet or a toy was to just enjoy having it.

The problem was that Claude knew this was a game. He knew what the object of the game was and it was one of the few things he wasn't interested in handing over to her. He did face here, he didn't want to. She'd try to convince him to join her in nudity and if she spoke, he didn't know if he could manage to disagree. He didn't want to expose himself to her, not matter what circumstances seemed to point to a different conclusion he should have. He refused to giver her a view of anything but his neck and hands, keeping his undershirt on as always before donning his nightshirt. Still determined, he sat on the bed to carefully take his hose off only after he was covered in his long nightshirt. He even tugged at his sleeves in an attempt to cover his wrists before getting into bed.

Esmeralda pulled her arm away and the curtains fell shut, banishing out most of the light in the room. He almost felt safe, covered up in the darkness. Esmeralda giggled as he pulled his feet up to adjust the covers and chased away his thoughts of a tranquil nights sleep. "Your feet are as small as mine." He was going to be curled up in his little ball again tonight, he thought as he grabbed the blankets and covered them. He didn't like this new game.

"I think they're cute," she said, slipping her hand under the blankets and touching them lightly. "They're so cold! You poor thing."

"I don't mind the cold," he answered.

"I can keep you warm," Esmeralda said, taking her hands from under the blankets and placing them lightly on his shoulders.

"I like the cold," he said, brushing her hands off and laying down.

Esmeralda found his hands in the dark and held them lightly. She could feel him pull away slightly, but still loyally let her dainty fingertips touch his palms as her thumbs stroked the back of his hand brushed over his rings. They stayed over his wedding ring longer than the others. "You know I didn't marry you for your money, right?"

"Of course not," he answered drowsily. "You married me so I wouldn't kill any gypsies who had nothing to do with attacking me and Gaetan."

Right. That. She didn't know when it happened, or why, but she didn't want a marriage where she just took advantage of him, at least not without him liking it.

"I'm not going to force you, but I will wait until you're ready, and I'll do anything for it," she said, squeezing his hands in what she hoped he understood as a loving gesture.

There was a short pause before he spoke. "I doubt you would."

"No more about it, I promise," she said. She hoped that would placate him. All that complaining about wanting to be allowed in his own bed and she was scaring him away from it. He feared and resigned himself to sleep with his own wife. Not even he deserved that. Not now, at least.

"Thank you."

"Claude?" she asked. She hoped using his first name would make him feel better.

"Yes?"

"Can we have fun on Saturdays again? If you're in the mood, that is."

"Of course," he answered drowsily. Despite her talk, he was still convinced confused was the right mood.

Esmeralda waited. Either sleep or ease was calming his hands. The tensions was fading away, there was a heat, but it could have been her own hands warming his. She waited for the calm to take hold of his hands before she spoke again, not caring if he was asleep.

"Claude?

"Yes?" he asked.

She was surprised at that. He'd been waiting for her to do something. She hadn't managed to calm him as much as she wanted; he was still alert in case she wanted to surprise him with something unpleasant. "Can you hold me? Only if you want to, though."

One hand closed around her, while the other pulled away and he limply put his arm around her back.

Keeping his hand captive as a hostage in case he misunderstood, she moved closer to him until she was pressing up against his clothed chest.

She heard him gasp, but he made no move to separate himself. She didn't understand. He didn't expect her to love him, not like this. In fact, he didn't expect his opinion to matter, ever. Both felt better than he expected them to, though.

………………

Clopin was having less luck with his spouse. Giselle's happiness over having Esmeralda as a new daughter had soon dissipated. She was still trapped here in the sewers, with nothing but a tent over her head and strange, frightening people watching her all the time. She soon planted herself in a corner and tended to Prince, who didn't understand how he made things worse by not recognizing her.

"Giselle?" Clopin tentatively poked his head in his tent.

Both Giselle and prince turned to him, but the baby was the only one who was happy to see him. The baby reached out with his stubby fingers and made unspellable sounds at him.

"No, this isn't for you," Clopin teased as he stepped inside. He was holding a bowl of stew, still hot. "Here, try this if you're hungry," he said, tossing his hat to Prince, who seemed to be in paradise once he'd stuck the purple leather in his mouth. "I hope this doesn't mean there's something wrong with the kid."

Giselle wasn't amused. She just kept staring at him. It was obvious that if she felt she could, she would have just left for the brothel to live there again.

"I brought you dinner," he said, handing her the bowl.

At first, Giselle just looked at it, but soon conceded in exchanging the baby for dinner. Clopin wondered just what was wrong with her family. Giselle couldn't have gotten her mood from Frollo.

CLopin waited for Giselle to start eating before he continued. "I'm sorry, I thought you'd be out making friends, getting to know people. There's everything you could ever want down here."

"Sunlight?"

"Alright, not that, but I was thinking more along the lines of a butcher or a baker, they even have tailors here. You could buy a new dress." 'Women like new dresses, don't they?' Clopin thought. He's only ever needed flowers, a little wine, and anything that could constitute as dinner. "I'll bet you've never had a new dress in years. You can't go around Paris wearing this anymore, now can you?" Clopin brushed Giselle's arms over the purple patch that branded her a prostitute. "You'll need something for your hair too." It was a lame excuse, he knew, but that was the only kind of excuse he knew. He put his gloved hand through his wife's hair and brushed her bangs out of her eyes. "No one can see what a beautiful wife I have if your hair covers your pretty face."

"But where will we get the money?" Giselle asked. "How will we feed him if you give me such things?"

Prince turned to her, as if to tell her he was fine eating the hat and didn't need anything else.

"But we have money, here, look for yourself," he said. It took some twisting and maneuvering, but he managed to still hold prince as he unfastened his purse from under his tunic.

He tossed the purse to her, and a few coins spilled out. Giselle set her food aside to wonder at the money. There were coins she had never seen before. There was more than she could ever make in a year in a single coin.

"Don't worry, I still like you just as much," Clopin joked.

"Where did you get all of this?" Giselle asked. For a second, she was afraid he had robbed, possibly murdered someone rich.

"The very same little girl you chased away to the church today. She said I could have it, as long as I made you happy. If you want to move away, back up to the sun and the flowers and mud, you can take the money and Prince and go. I'd rather you stayed, though." He took her hands before she could return to dinner. I guess its not much of an enchantment for you, being so lonely and losing so much, but I really did want to give you a fairytale."

"I'll stay with you, as any wife should," she answered. I do supposed even this is better than the brothel, and we are away from the sewers… but the devil still has my child. Please help me save her."

If only in this case she were talking about Frollo, things might be simpler… or not. If he took Frollo's apprentice away, there'd be no more money for Giselle or Prince. Then again, he wasn't a good influence on her. He wasn't a good influence on anyone. Djali was probably developing an attitude by now. It actually was better to let her stay; hopefully Esmeralda would counteract what Frollo taught her or at least encrouage her to come down here so her family could set her straight. Clopin wondered why Giselle couldn't see how her little girl being a little boy was helping them.

"She's a righteous girl, Giselle. She can fight her own demons and someday she will win. I'm sure the only reason it isn't leaving is because of how badly she beat it up. She's your daughter, she knows right from wrong. She's doing it to make you happy, can't you grant her that?"

"I can't. Not until she's a real woman. It's my fault, isn't it, Clopin? Because I was never a real woman until now. I want her to be one of God's flock, not a stray after odd fancies."

"God knows his own, no matter what appearance they take, Giselle. I like to think that. You should eat. You won't feel well in the morning if you don't."

"I don't know anything about this place," Giselle said, going back to her food.

"You'll learn. You'll have all the time you need, because I'm going to make sure you never go back there. In fact, you'll never have to work again, I promise. You'll make friends and if you don't, I'll have Esmeralda be your friend and she'll yell at all the others."

Giselle smiled at the mention of Esmeralda..

"So you two did get along today, I see."

"I was hoping she could help Gaetan find a good man to marry," Giselle said.

"I wouldn't jump to conclusions about her tastes," Clopin said. "I should have figured it wasn't just her cooking where she was weird."


	41. Bigger Than Us

One person can make more trouble than people realize.

Heroines shine in people's minds, women standing tall and independent, wielding their weapons to the heavens. Heroes are forged in metal and stone, lest anyone forget the great deeds they accomplished. Martyrs change history in ways no one ever thinks possible. Riots are always one speech away. And then there are the predators who are very specific about their prey.

…………………..

Claude had arranged for his household to be civil. He still had gypsies he had to put to trial and arrange executions for. With the soldiers terrorizing other gypsies on the streets, he had to settle even more arguments of who hit who first. Coming back to his house to find Esmeralda berating Gaetan for leaving the soapy water where she could—and did—trip over it while the goat chewed on the bucket and he was looking forward to sitting and doing absolutely nothing for a blessed five minutes as badly as when his knee had been injured, he imparted his own laws on his household and threatened to arrest anyone who didn't follow them.

Perhaps everyone would rather be where they were than in the dungeons, perhaps they were as exhausted and tired as he was and also wanted rest from outside. Whatever the reason, they all agreed to his demands. Claude and Esmeralda alternated who got the apprentice at night. Claude educated Gaetan, giving her scenarios ranging from famous battles to disasters he'd had to get himself out of while Esmeralda quietly listened as she held Djali. Esmeralda tried to find things to play with and attempted conversations, none of which went as she expected, but she was nonetheless content.

Gaetan was banned from the Court of Miracles by Frollo, saying he didn't trust her safety down there until there were no more protests against her. Giselle still held out and saw Esmeralda less and the church more as she looked for salvation for her daughter.

Esmeralda was allowed to go where she pleased by Frollo still, but Clopin admitted he didn't want her in her tent as she now scared Giselle by seeing nothing wrong with Gaetan's behavior and dress. Her husband began avoiding her. He only spoke to her during meals, at which they both agreed to be pleasant, and he began going to bed and getting up earlier.

At first they were all counting the days until Giselle gave in. The days turned into weeks, the weeks became two months, and by then it was common news that the archdeacon was walking Giselle home after she had spent most of the day in the church. Everyone else was waiting for god to give them an answer, always forgetting He works in mysterious ways.

……………………

Suspicion is a cruel thing.

There is no deadlier weapon your enemies can wield, and it can create enemies out of thin air.

One person can make more trouble than people realize.

……………………..

Frollo left for the court rooms. Esmeralda skipped off to finish chores. Djali followed her. The cook stayed where she was, content that she had gotten some use out of Frollo's new wife and forced her to buy groceries and guarded the house. Gaetan left for the stables.

Frollo said he didn't want to be disturbed, even if all of Paris was set on fire. Esmeralda went to the court to chat with her friends as she mended a few items. The cook grinned happily, giving in to putting salt in the food was hardly a sacrifice to get that freeloading gypsy to start pulling her weight. Gaetan stopped in the middle of crossing the street.

Two soldiers were harassing a woman carrying nothing but a basket of biscuits. Her struggles against them were spilling her food everywhere. Gaetan decided to stop them

"Stop bothering her and find some real trouble," she ordered. There were real crimes. Two thieves and one unfortunate person who got in a fight over false accusations were caught, but only because the soldiers had been reprimanded from several innocent gypsies. "Go do your jobs, you've checked her and she has nothing."

As Gaetan and the guards turned to leave, the woman grabbed Gaetan's arm. "My husband died because of you, you whore!" the woman spat at her, hitting her hair.

Gaetan drew her sword and the soldiers turned around. "Let go of me!" she screamed, raising the weapon.

By now a crowd had gathered around them as usual. Also as usual, the people gave the fight considerable room and no one moved to help.

"You stood there and executed my husband!" the woman screamed, her grip tightening.

"I was nearly raped!" Gaetan screamed back.

"You deserved it, you murdering harlot!"

Gaetan tanked her arm back, jerking the woman towards her. The sword was brought down hilt first in Gaetan's tiny fist… which let go before she struck.

The crowd gasped and the soldier stopped in the middle of readying their spears.

Gaetan's eyes went wide, then rolled back as they closed. She fell to the street and the sword flew from her hand, clattering loudly.

The woman stood where she was, saying nothing, but still seething. Her arm up to her elbow was soaked in blood; in her hand she clenched a small dagger.

As fate liked to time things perfectly, often for disaster, Clopin finally burst through the crowd. "I said move!" he yelled, then saw the soldiers, then witnessed the whole scene.

"What happened?" he asked.

One soldier was struggling furiously with the woman. She tried to stab him as well, but only managed a few light scratches. "I have six children!" she screamed.

"She was stabbed just under her breastplate. Hadn't you planned it that way?" the he soldier yelled. The other soldier scooped up Gaetan and ran.

Clopin almost took off after Gaetan, but the soldier next to him shoved the angry woman into him. She was up immediately, but not fast enough to avoid the soldiers spear.

Clopin just stood where he was. The soldier pushed the woman off his spear with his foot. "You'll probably want to clean that up," the soldier said. He turned to leave as the crowd began to disperse, everyone mumbling to each other. "And find a good excuse to tell the Minister."

………………

Phoebus opened the door of his room and was forced to stop so suddenly he had to grab the doorway.

"What in the name of Hell are you doing here?" Phoebus screamed, backing away.

"Good news or bad news first?" Jacques asked.

"I just woke up," Phoebus complained, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "Can this wait?"

"The good news is that it could've been worse," Jacques said.

"What did he do now?" Phoebus screamed.

"He?" Jacques asked.

Phoebus had run off before Jacques could say anymore.

………………

Clopin had been watching the hospice from across the street from behind a cart. Finally, the doctor left. Hopefully someone was injured and stuck somewhere and it would take a long time to get them out. Clopin ignored the fact that the doctor was running down the street and ducked into the hospital as soon as he was sure he wouldn't be seen.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he found the place deserted save for one bed with blankets tacked around it.

"Gaetane?" he whispered.

"I think they took her to jail," was the response from behind the curtain.

"We'll burn that bridge later."

"Isn't that a bad thing?" she asked.

"I'll figure that out later. Look, I'm a bit uncomfortable talking to you in your underwear again. Are you decent?"

"Enough," she answered.

Clopin pushed a blanket aside. Gaetane was lying on the bed, Appolonia curled up in the crook of her arm. Gaetan's weapons, boots, and clothes were lying on a stand next to the bed. She was dressed only in her men's underwear with a blanket up to her shoulders. She wasn't bothered by his presence this time. With a giant blood stain seeping through the covers, her skin morbidly wan and her attempt to smile past the pain creating a gruesome expression, a more cowardly gypsy would have run off in fear of Frollo having control of angry ghosts.

"Please don't be mad," Clopin begged, taking her hand away from the cat, who just rearranged itself.

Gaetan winced, clutching at her wound. "Mama was right. This is wicked and I'm paying for it."

"Gaetan, don't say that," he said, clutching her hand tighter and adding his other one.

"I'll get you money some other way, I promise. I can work just like Mama did."

Clopin dropped her hand to wave his arms. "What is going on around here? Everyone's insane, creepy, a drunken idiot or thinking about sex when they shouldn't. When did everyone turn French?"

Feeling Clopin's complaint was out of place and that he shouldn't be one to complain, she reached up and smacked him in the back of the head, knocking his hat off.

"Okay, now you are acting like Frollo," they heard. The two turned to see Phoebus and Jacques standing in the doorway.

"Get him out of my hospice!" Jacques screamed, hiding slightly behind Phoebus.

Phoebus strode further in the hospice, getting away from Jacques, but walking between him and Clopin.

"I'm pretty sure her father has a good reason to visit her here," Phoebus said deciding that, given even what little he'd heard and what he'd already seen, he'd rather not be between them. For once, he was using his head.

"It was one of them who did this to her in the first place!" Jacques yelled. "Her real father would is doing a better job and he's a jackass!"

At that, Clopin jumped at the doctor, determined to show the man just how bad he could be.

"Hey!" Gaetan cried out, forgetting herself and falling out of the bed in an attempt to stop them.

Phoebus tired to stop her, but fell to his knees as she plunged to the floor.

"What exactly am I interrupting here?" someone shouted.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at the doorway. "It's not what it looks like," they all said, noticing that it was Esmeralda.

"What in the world are you people thinking?" she yelled. "You're married!" she yelled at Clopin, who was on top of Jacques; even though they were both trying to attack each other with blades, they were in a very compromising situation. "And you're not!" she yelled at Phoebus, who looked like he was trying to crawl into Gaetan's bed and she was trying to crawl out. "People are yelling that Gaetan's been murdered!"

Jacques was the first to react. He kicked Clopin in the crotch.

Phoebus was the second to react. He quickly shoved Gaetan back on the bed and dashed over to grab the dagger from Clopin and the saw from Jacques. "I think there's been enough playing with sharp objects today." Unarmed, the doctor darted to the opposite side of the hospice as the one Clopin as cringing in.

"What is going on?" Esmeralda asked. "There are rumors that someone killed Gaetan."

Almost in retort, Gaetan groaned. "I think I broke the stitches."

Jacques scurried over to her and closed the sorry-looking curtains behind him and Phoebus did his best to force some common sense into the conversation. It wasn't easy.

"You don't seem surprised she isn't."

"If it was true, Clopin would be down there screaming about how we're all dead, not up here making sure she isn't," Esmeralda answered. "What did happen?"

Phoebus shrugged. "I just woke up and this had already happened."

Esmeralda stared at the curtains. "Lady, if I knew when people were going to be stupid with sharp objects, I'd be richer than your husband," Jacques said. "Some soldier just put her on the bed and left. She's passed out now and as her doctor I don't want any of you within ten feet of her for a few days."

Phoebus and Esmeralda stared at Clopin, who was making a strange face wincing and holding his hand between his clamped legs. "Bit busy right now," Clopin squeaked.

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad," Esmeralda said.

"Uh, lady—" Phoebus tried to correct her, but she continued talking.

"I mean that man had a saw, just imagine—"

"Okay, you're not helping," Phoebus interrupted.

"I'm enjoying it," Jacques said, returning from behind the curtains.

"Do you get this from Frollo or does he get it from you?" Phoebus asked.

"I get it from having to be rescued by him every few months from these people!" Jacques yelled, pointing at Clopin and Esmeralda.

"The only reason she's allowed in here is because I'd like to be rescued again the next time it happens."

"The next time what happens?" Clopin asked, not moving his hands

"Clopin, we need to talk," Esmeralda said.

"Good, take him with you," Jacques said.

"No, he stays here," Phoebus said. "You're going to tell us what happened first and if you don't I'm giving him the saw back."

…………………….

"Clopin, this is a disaster!" Esmeralda said as they chatted at his puppetstand. "People are getting into all kinds of trouble you don't know about!"

Clopin sighed. He'd always just protected his people against others. He never thought he'd have to protect other people from the gypsies. When did 'victim' turn into something you had to work at?

What was worse was that there was one person who knew how to put things back together when secrets and riots suddenly showed up. "But I don't want to get married again," Clopin complained to himself.

"What are you talking about?" Esmeralda asked.

"Nothing. Can you tell your husband about this? I'm going to try and fix a few things myself."

"Are you sure that's a smart idea?"

"Look who's talking."

…………………..

One person can make help than people realize.

Heroines stand alone in the cold and speak of terrible things, speaking the truth as pure as water that can only be found in dreams to their husbands and beg for forgiveness they know many don't deserve. Heroes fight with even the good over past misdeeds and force upon them regret for making victims of someone who could have once been an ally. Martyrs blame themselves for their misfortunes; condemn themselves for their doubt and inability to move from the doctor's doorstep and hate themselves for asking for their worries of their children to stay secret. Then there are those who drink to forget that there are such people.


	42. Hellfire

Esmeralda was abandoned to the shadows and darkness the night before. Today, she was again abandoned, ignored as Frollo dressed, greeted by silence at breakfast, and told nothing more than 'Without Gaetan, you'll have to do her work for a few days.' She had gone to him begging, weeping, telling him everything, and he had abandoned her.

"Oh Djali," she muttered, hugging her goat when the door had closed. She'd never felt so afraid, not even as Frollo told his story. Now she wished for his touch, even his fingers sinisterly clamped around her wrist.

One person can't make a difference. The shine of heroines is dulled in memory, their flames too dull to ignite any inspiration. Heroes rust and rot away. And there will always be those who prey on others.

………………….

The gypsies were gone from the streets again. Esmeralda was inside. Clopin was angrily sulking atop his gibbet. He, not the dead woman, was the reason the gypsies had abandoned the streets. He had banned anyone from leaving until Frollo decided how to deal with them all. No one came near him, fearing his presence more than his punishment.

When soldiers came and he willingly left with them—tearing his arms from their grasp, but willing nonetheless—everyone hid in their tents until the next day.

In The Court of Miracles, people were praying they would live to see one.

…………….

Frollo put his hand to his aching temples when Clopin was shoved through the door of the drawing room in The Palace of Justice. "Just so you know, I did ask those imbeciles to bring you here politely," he said as Clopin picked himself up off the floor.

"I'm rather surprised about both facts," Clopin said, straightening his tunic.

Frollo leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk and set his large stack of papers to the side. "Esmeralda told me what happened yesterday," he said flatly.

"Um, yes, about that…"

"Yes, about that: we had a truce. However, following the rules of such a truce would cost me my wife and my apprentice. However, the law is meant to be stronger than the men who uphold it. You understand, don't you?"

"Uh… yes?" Clopin answered. "So… what are you going to do?"

"Oh, I was hoping you could help me decide," Frollo said. "How do you punish those who threaten your lives and those of your people?"

"Um…" Clopin was questioning exactly why he told stories of Frollo torturing people in his dungeons with gruesome instruments. Just sitting at his desk, he cold make most men wet their pants.

"I try to make examples for people to learn by," Frollo said, almost calm.

"That sounds… possible," Clopin said, taking off his hat and holding it nervously. Maybe if he just talked to everyone for an hour.

"There's a problem with that."

"There is?" 'Damn'

"You see, one thing that sets us from the animals is not merely our ability to learn, but our ability not to. Animals have no choice but to learn from their experiences if they can remember them. Try as I may, I've never gotten people to remember for very long."

"So…"

"So the obvious answer is to give an example every single person in Paris will have no choice but to learn from." Frollo thought things would be so much easier if people paid attention. As children, people looked at the man dangling from the noose and thought 'Hey, a swing!' If only they remembered other people would treat their own dead bodies like that, there might be some order around here. "I just thought you might you might have a good idea as to what such an example would be. If I appear weak, none of your children are safe, and I happen to like two of them. If there is no alternative… I'm afraid they face the same fate. Gaetan either faces another blade or will die on the streets if she runs away from me when she hears of her mother. Now, you're creative; appearing too insignificant to know any important information, the excuses you make, what you've done to those who trespass upon your territory…why, you've even left some of them alive as I recall. Very persuasive job you did with them, I must say. Surely you can think up something that can solve this little dilemma…"

Clopin swallowed hard, remembering Frollo's words: 'the law is meant to be stronger than the men who uphold it.' If Frollo kept being right all the time… well, he wasn't going to be.

……….

Esmeralda had gone to bed wondering where her husband was. Maybe he was still working. Maybe he'd gone down to the court to discuss things. Maybe he'd gone to the court to do other things. Maybe he was in the dungeons, still working.

"Claude?" she asked as she heard something shuffling in the bedroom. She swore she closed the door; Djali wouldn't have gotten in. "Is that you?"

"I apologize; I didn't need to wake you," he said.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"I was working."

"That's not a 'where.'"

"I was in the Palace of Justice," he said dejectedly, sitting on the bed. "I had to finish a lot of paperwork after speaking to your friend. I recommend you stay inside tomorrow. Wear something I bought you if you feel you must go out. My men are on strict orders to bring any gypsies they find to me."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'd rather you spoke to your friend over that, Esmeralda," he said, never once looking at her. "I'm sorry."

Claude started to stand up, but Esmeralda put her hand on his shoulder. "Stay with me," she whispered.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure. Lie down," she whispered to him.

Reluctantly he lay down, resting his head on his pillow as she moved the covers over him. He shivered as she put her arm over him, yet gripped her hand as if he were drowning.

He knew everyone was, in one way or another.

……………..

The gibbet had been torn down quickly in the night to make room for the wagons, stakes, and wicker. There was no stand, no dias for the minister; just a hushed and hungry crowd. The only gypsies in the city had been brought to the empty square of the city, which was now full of wood.

The bells at dawn were late in greeting the sun which would soon be outshone

Frollo stood at the front of the pile of wood. "Our own Lord once said 'I have come to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were blazing already!' Today, I give Our Savior a conflagration to his name and that of France! May neither king be as unmoved or unquestioned!"

The late bells rang out as his torch was lowered to a bundle of wicker. People bound to stakes in the middle began to scream and sob. One woman in the crowd telling her daughter how rich the minister must be to afford so much wood stopped in midsentence.

Frollo walked away to watch from a safer distance. "Cast them back where they belong," he ordered as the flames took over the entire pile.

………………..

Fire will one day take us all.

Fire is a god's gift, given to us at the punishment of eternal pain.

Fire will cleanse our sins before we join them in the flames.

We are bowed by fire, the touch of the True Essence of God and yet the fear of the touch of Hell.

Fire is life, fire is death. Fire is change, fire is rage, fire is love.

Fire cleans all wrongs, and destroys all good.

Fire today has enchanted us all.

……………………………………

The fire drove many away, the heat being the most bearable part of it. Some it pulled in for brief moments of wonder.

The archdeacon went back to his cathedral when he was told Frollo refused to explain in person and was told to inquire at the court of miracles. Jacques stood outside the hospice for hours petting his cat.

More though, were moved only in their hearts.

Far in the hospice, Gaetan rolled over and began to cry, the smell of smoke thick and heavy even there.

Phoebus didn't know exactly what direction it was, but all he knew was that he was moved. He was just outside the city, at the gates. He stopped vagrants, but soon he was holding up a log line of wagons and caravans. All he could say was the city wouldn't be open until sunset, Minister's orders. Soon he could barely manage even that. The fire was noticeable from even where he stood, little more than a strange color on a patch of the sky.

After finding out that only one person could yell at the captain of the guard and have any affect and that they weren't them, the drivers and passengers began to watch the color on the sky as well. Paris was burning and they were locked away was all they knew. For the whole day, the Captain preteneded it never happened and people got out to watch and wonder.

One person waited until late afternoon to step out. She was listening to the spectators and pondering the true goings on in the city before finally deciding to see for herself. She was unimpressed by a mere smear on the sky.

What concerned her more, and what put a smile on her face, was that she knew whatever Frollo was up to, he'd backed down or lost somehow. This was a fire of cowardice.

Fires are often used to drive away demons, but this demon loved the way the flames made her eyes sparkle.

………..

Esmeralda never reached Clopin. She had followed Frollo's instructions and no one stopped her. Few looked at her. Suddenly, while walking through empty streets, she noticed what had taken the attention away from her.

She turned and recognized the bright glow instantly. People were becoming flames. Murderers were facing the nightmare they'd given so many others.

Evil was not the only thing burning today. Today, she was no longer a gypsy. She was the wife of the Minister of Justice. She was his, as was the city.

She wondered why there was no remorse at that, only at her stolen family name.

………………

The blaze sent many into their homes, even into hiding. The archdeacon was nowhere to be found all day, even into the dark evening mass. He denied knowing anything of the day of the blaze when he returned from his solace.

Only now, in the heat of August, against the power of the blaze, did Quasimodo venture down from his roost.

A sadness weighed heavily in his chest; not for the lives of the gypsies, but the fear that something had happened to his only friend. She had been granted no funeral pyre, no banners, no songs in the cathedral. He soon returned to a more efficient mourning back to his familiar surrounding and the bells were tolled out in his greatest symphony yet.

………..

Esmeralda felt cold. She wandered a long time, sitting on the well by Notre Dame. She didn't watch the fire; she watched the church. She watched the Portal of Saint Anne, as a woman who had done nothing to be graced with holiness and power glowed red, watching her with reflected curiosity.

High above the fire, watching the one gypsy to escape and walk free, the Saint seemed to ask why.

Esmeralda stayed silent as the glow faded from her eyes, as the woman disappeared in the smoke. Even when the fire was gone, Esmeralda stayed, watching the ghostly woman return, fighting her way through think smoke to walk the air like a draped corpse. Still the eyes, hidden in the stone face, asked her why.

Esmeralda watched the woman, with barely a name, until she knew why and returned to the reason.

It was well past midnight, and there were children sweeping up the ashes as a soldier slumbered and pretended to watch. All that was left would be a black mark on the square, and soon even that would be gone. In the dark, watching the children remove the ashes for the money that would barely buy bread and searching over the larger pieces of the debris, the night was nothing it used to be.

The night once held her dark veil over Esmeralda's head to hide her from danger. She once wrapped her dark arms around her for comfort when she was lost. The stars were there for her, a thousand diamonds more than ever the richest woman, and only a gypsy could own the night.

But there was no comfort, no hiding, and not one speck of beauty in the sky tonight. Not even dawn would show her head, and she was hours away, always refusing to be bothered by mortal needs.

……………

Claude was not bothered by his wife's lateness. He himself had left immediately after there were no more prisoners. He had hidden near the city gates, waiting for sunset when Phoebus finally opened them to the merchants. At least the man was on time. It was late and the merchants parked their carts and stabled their horses. They found lodging where they could and they waited with the city for the next day, never knowing what caused the glow or the smoke or the unease as those they were visiting and spent hours after the sky had turned pitch black with them.

What surprised him was that she returned home at all.

He sat at the table, and when she entered he stayed sitting at the table, making it clear that he thought she was the one offended.

Wordlessly, she walked over to him, She waited for him to speak. She could not even put a simple question into words, having no idea what would be the right one … or even the right subject for it.

"I never thought you would come home," he said, shuffling a piece of cloth in his hands.

"Of course I would, I'm your wife," she said. What she really wanted was a hug, but this time, she found herself to be the one who had no idea as to whether she was allowed to touch him or if it would offend him right into the bedroom behind a locked door.

"That would not stop you from anything," he said, standing up. The cloth fell from his fingers. "Anything you do now… I will not blame you for. I believed you when you said you loved me after what you did. I believed you loved me since then." He reached behind her neck with both hands. "You are free to never love me again, but I wanted to give you this for when you did."

Esmeralda felt something cold hit her chest and she gasped, looking down as he backed away.

Draped below her collar bone was a golden necklace, two delicate strands held dangling marquis cut rubies.

"I wanted to reward you for what you've given me, he said, his hand near her face, but not touching her.

Immediately she began to cry.

He pulled his hand away so fast it sent her hair flying about.

She grabbed him and pulled him to her, as close as she could squeeze him. "Don't leave me!" she yelled into his velvet gown.

He wrapped his hands around her back.

"I'm never taking it off," she said.

She felt his lips graze her forehead, accompanied by hot tears at the sides. "You love beautiful things," she heard him say, but she was not listening.

…………….

Clopin demanded everyone listen to him. He yelled at those who whispered to their friends and even to mothers with loud children. He would have silence if he had to use knives.

He told a story. It was a story he told every child when they realized how harsh the world was. Whenever a relative was arrested, whenever they couldn't dance in the street, whenever as soldier tore their clothes shoving them aside, they heard this story if they held any enthusiasm for change.

This story, however, was very different than what it had originally been.

Claude Frollo ruled the city. Yes, there was a king, but Frollo was the man who ruled. To defy Frollo was to defy God, for God always made two. There were two sets of eyes, to see all. The eyes over Paris, however, watched each other. These eyes belonged to Frollo… and to himself.

Frollo was determined. He wanted to fight. He wanted to catch. He wanted to command. He wanted obedience. He wanted to live to see the dawn of the day The Lord Himself would come down and judge him in turn. The minister fought too much. He bled in fights as he fought everyone when he was young… but his will fought too hard to keep him alive, to keep him charging about Paris like dark thunder. His soul was what kept him alive while the fight bled him. Now he watches Paris and should he be struck down, in anyway, Paris will turn black with the ink that flows through his veins, for his heart is now dark as pitch and just as dull to the world.

But he, Clopin, he had fought too. But he cared. He fought for his people, for his daughter and friend, for his home. It was his body that pushed him to stay alive, because his death was their death, and he was born to die sending someone to hell. But should he be struck down in any way, he will turn Paris red as Egypt and dead as Sodom.

Now Frollo protected Paris from the curse of sin and Clopin protected the gypsies from the curse of torment. Should one fall, all they protected were doomed. Paris would become Hell, and the gypsies would become the damned.

However, there is more than one way to be struck down. Death travels by souls. The souls of children are never severed from the souls of their parents, and marriage joins two souls by the power of God, a power mountains will fall before it weakens.

If one close to them should die, their soul dies and they close their eyes. Every inch of Paris, from the sewers to the to the bells which will never be touched again, shall turn red, and it shall be so black that it will never see another dawn.


	43. Don't jump to Conclusions

'Because I said so' is not a good reason for anything. Unless the person who says it is Frollo and the only reason he doesn't try to kill you is because it'd make him even more late for something he'd rather be doing.

Phoebus was beginning to prefer Saturdays when Frollo couldn't be found.

Usually Phoebus made it a habit not to question orders. Even though he left to get away form the war, he still acted as if he was in one. He followed orders the same way. He considered those he fought to be innocent and always ended up surprised when they turned out to be jerks. He still hated telling the wounded to pack the armor tight enough so that they won't bleed to death for a few more hours and get back into the battlefield.

Phoebus felt he was entering the war all over again as he stepped into the hospice. There were surprises no one could steel themself for. When he began, it was people crawling over pieces of themselves that had been torn out just to keep fighting; it was the strange sounds from the medical tent, it was the expressions on the dying that were still living—always out of place.

"I'm here to—"

"She is scaring me," Jacques said through gritted teeth. "Make her stop."

"Wonderful way he's running the place," Phoebus grumbled.

"Consider the alternative," Jacques said.

"I am trying very hard not to—shit." Never finish a sentence when tossing a curtain—including makeshift with little baby ducks on it—aside when you know you're not going to like what's on the other side.

'It could be worse' he thought, but he didn't believe himself.

Gaetan was fully dressed, down to the armor and up to the cape and hat. She looked deader than before, leaning heavily on the bed and clenching her fists hard, so as not to give away how much her wound still hurt.

But what was really scary was that her eyes looked more alive than ever. She had always held some fire in her eyes, but these were furnaces that could split rock. Phoebus had seen this before, people determined to do the inhuman while less than whole. He'd seen them accomplish it too. People cut in half avenged their death prematurely, boys who hadn't slept in days take out a dozen others before hitting the ground, even a man whose eyes destroyed have the last laugh. It hadn't been funny.

Gaetan's legs began to shake and a smile that was in as poor shape as herself crawled-one-handed across her face.

"Stop that!" Phoebus yelped, cringing. At least the dead people he'd seen figured out they were dead soon after scaring everyone. "Save that for scaring people while working, at least."

"I'm not going to," she managed.

"Why? You've scared me sober for the next week."

"Because I quit."

"You can't—" Phoebus stopped himself. 'Can't' is a dangerous word. Of course someone can do nearly any insane thing they want. The can and telling them otherwise is a lie. Survival, however, is out of the question most of the time, but they still can. "Do you want me to rescue you or something from this?"

"No," she said, and this time it hurt. "Not unless you rescued my mother."

"…Sort of," Phoebus said. The hospice seemed to exist outside of time… or at least gossip. "Your whole family's fine."

"Why? What happened to him?" she asked, now almost terrified.

"Nothing happened to anyone… except you."

Gaetan said nothing, waiting for a sentence that wasn't coming.

"That's it."

"Why didn't he keep his word?" Gaetan asked. It was important that Frollo kept his word. Why, in the world would anyone but the crazy guy himself worry about such a thing.

Now Phoebus knew why it was his duty to get her out of the hospital. Frollo knew nothing of how to deal with betrayal but to burn. He needed Gaetan. He needed Esmeralda. He needed that crazy guy who said he was Gaetan's father.

"Because he said so, that's why," Phoebus said.

Gaetan came to a different conclusion. She didn't understand why Esmeralda was still around, even though the two did seem to be getting along better these last few months. She figured everything would be easier for Frollo without any gypsies at all, so there was no need to preserve them. It was because she was a gypsy. It would look silly not to execute them all, but it would worse to execute them all for killing one of their own, no matter how blonde. He wanted to keep her around for more than that too. She didn't think even he knew what just yet.

"I think I understand now,"

"Tell me when I'm older."

………………….

Frollo insisted on Gaetan not pushing herself wither her injury. He also insisted his reason was purely because he did not want any comments about what happened from the archdeacon and nothing else.

Phoebus didn't mind, although he had to keep anyone form seeing him lift her onto her horse while Gaetan struggled to keep it from attacking him.

Gaetan's duties were not split between Frollo's apprentice and his wife; he had warned both of them 'not to get used to it.' On alternate days while she healed, Gaetan entertained her master and her mistress.

Frollo used her injury to his advantage. Her injury gave her incentive to push her mind harder on outwitting enemies and keeping clear of assassins.

Esmeralda, on the other hand, never knew quite what to do with the girl. Gaetan didn't know how to talk to other girls. Boys, dresses, jewelry… Djali knew more than her. The only men she knew how to talk about were those breaking the law. In the end, Esmeralda settled on chores. Esmeralda went about some sedentary chores and Gaetan helped—or pathetically tried.

While Esmeralda began to daintily sew some pillows, she set Gaetan to knit… several times.

"I should find you a guy like Jean-Luc," Esmeralda set, one again undoing and untangling the mess Gaetan has somehow created with just two small sticks. Somehow the kid managed to beat string into a worse mess than any rumors about Frollo's victims.

"He's pretty good about women having jobs—what did you do to this stuff?"

"I thought I was doing what you told me to," Gaetan said.

"This is the biggest knot—whatever," Esmeralda tossed the mess to Djali, to looked at it skeptically. For once, the goat wasn't hungry.

"I learned everything from him. He could probably teach your mother some new tricks."

Gaetan was the only one who noticed Claude drop the papers he was looking over in his lap.

"I can ask Clopin if there's someone else like him. You would get along great with someone like that."

"Why not him?" Gaetan asked as Djali finally got up the courage to nibble on the mess of yarn.

"Trust me, it wouldn't work. He and I had a fight a long time ago. We disagreed on… philosophy. That and… you're not his type. He had a lot, but you're not one of them."

"You want me to find someone like my mom?" Gaetan asked.

"I'm going to bed," Claude said, slamming the papers on the table as he stood up. He slammed the door after himself.

"I'm confused," Gaetan said.

"Pet the goat, kid." Esmeralda hurried into the bedroom after her husband.

"You are not going to do what you're about to do!" Esmeralda yelled when she was sure the door had closed behind her.

"Read?" he asked in his usual clueless way when talking to his wife.

Esmeralda paused, not having any back up plans for her argument. "So… you're not going to go out and find the other men I've slept with?"

"Unless you've slept with them while we were married; but then you'd be in trouble as well."

"Of course not," she said. "I mean, I've always been… 'one of those girls'… you know, the one not many want to marry, but she's been with several already… but I'd never to that to anyone I married."

Claude turned away and pulled his hand away form the bookshelf. The conversation wasn't over, but he stayed silent.

"I left Jean-luc two years ago," Esmeralda said. "I wasn't lying when I said we disagreed. He… didn't believe women should ask for any of those tricks I learned or to have fun like that in the first place." She walked over and hugged him. "Now I have all the fun I ever wanted."

"I see," Claude said, not understanding how much her speech had hurt him, for he was just beginning to doubt his one and only wife.

……………………….

Saturdays became a day of education for the two involved in marital frivolities. Esmeralda never imagined how much work the perfect day was. Claude was always distracted afterwards, good intentions driving him into something awkward and then she had to not only tell him what happened wasn't as bad as he thought, but tell him what to do instead. She'd never thought there was etiquette for enjoying yourself with your clothes off. Apparently, he did, but always assumed the wrong course of action.

Despite his wife's assurances, Claude tried to make up for his perceived transgressions with gifts. Esmeralda knew what he was doing, but she was incorrigible. She loved the sparkled of jewels and polished metal. She loved the smell of flowers and perfume and soaps. She loved the feel and look of new dresses and accessories.

Despite herself, she knew the gifts were portends for unhappiness.

……………….

It was now mid-September, and with all the disasters as of late, the two found themselves very relaxed as they wondered what to do with the rest of their Saturday as they lay next to each other.

Claude was on his stomach, his hose barely pulled down, the sight of which made Esmeralda giggle as they held hands.

"You have almost no curves here," Esmeralda said, tracing over his rear with her finger tip.

Claude yelpe din surprise, tensed, and immediately took his hand form her and shoved her gown over the exposed white flesh.

"I'm sorry," Esmeralda said, pulling her hand away. "I don't mean to hurt you."

"You promise?" he asked.

"Of course I promise," she said, taking his hand back. "I promise I will never try to hurt you."

"I love you," he whispered, moving closer. "I want to reward you. What would you want for such a promise?"

"I can think so something," she whispered back, squeezing his hand.

"I'll get you something from the market today," he said, standing up.

"I just—"

He closed the door of the bedroom behind himself.

"—wanted to have some fun again," she said.

Claude soon came back, hose changed and outfit immaculate. "Aren't you going to get ready?" he asked.

"For what?"

"The marketplace."

"But you don't have to."

"I promised. That should be enough."

……………..

Al the merchants were out, eager to sell everything they could before the cold winter months came. The gypsies were out, trying to replicate the sales. The cleaners were out. The beggars were out. Performers were out. It was practically a festival to earning money.

Claude let her go from stall to stall, merely to marvel at what was being sold and enjoy being allowed in and not chased away. He even allowed her to drag him along with her. He enjoyed it when she talked to him about what she thought of such silly things, even if he had no opinion to himself or didn't understand what she was trying to say; she was talking to him and wanted to and that was what mattered. Esmeralda was nice enough to catch on; she explained things to him and let him keep him non-existent opinion; the important part was that he liked listening to her.

Soldiers strolled amongst the gawkers and buyers. Esmeralda immediately grabbed Claude's arm and held as they passed after shooing a gypsy performer away form a stall. As the market grew in size with both entertainers and merchants, Esmeralda saw more and more soldiers. Most of them just walked past her and everyone else. Soon her distraction with the soldier left, after seeing her husband defend a Berber woman from harassing soldiers.

Even after her husband making a threat to the entire populace, he wanted to make sure his wife was happy with his work, even when someone else was doing it.

…………….

The day wore on and although Esmeralda marveled at nearly everything, she could not find anything she wanted as a gift. She'd love to have it all, but she wanted something special for a gift she got to pick out.

"I just can't make up my mind," Esmeralda said. "I don't even have a specific color I'm thinking of at the moment. I miss you just getting me things. Anything beautiful will do. You always know the perfect gift for the time, all those pretty—"

Esmeralda was used to dodging carts. Dodging the coach should be the same. It wasn't.

The first difference was that Claude grabbed her wrist and pulled her away. Esmeralda had never been saved by traffic and now she had no idea what to do. So she did nothing.

The second difference was the length of her skirt. Esmeralda had never had any clothing catch on anything before. So she did nothing.

The third and last difference was that a cart does not have spoked wheels. Before, she ran from shoddily made carts with a donkey that couldn't--or wouldn't—stop. So long as she was away, she was safe. This coach, however, was made well, and that meant spokes in the wheels. Now that she was out of the way, but still in trouble, she had no idea what to do, so she did nothing.

Anticlimactically the coach stopped with Esmeralda's skirts trapped in the wheel. Esmeralda and Claude just stared at each other, wondering exactly what to do next. The driver, with only a little more clue than his two accidental victims, peered over his seat and, after a thorough investigation from above, deduced that the skirt needed to be untangled and set about doing so very slowly.

Before the full feeling of relief took over, the coach door opened. A large an imposing figured strode up to the doorway, but haughtily refused to come any further. A tall woman who, though nowhere near the gentle reubensesque shape of Giselle and nothing in comparison to her girth, proudly displayed the fact that she was too big for her bodice and deemed herself too important to even be looking at the street, scoffed at the scene. The woman's outfit was less clothes and more gaudy accessories, most of which didn't match. "You take good care of your mistress," the woman said.

"We are married," Frollo shot back.

"And what insane priest would allow such a marriage? Really, the things you tell women just to keep them from running away."

"The archdeacon of Notre Dame performed it, actually," Frollo replied.

"As I've said, you take care of her well as a mistress, but you're pathetic at treating her as a wife. She looks like a gypsy, and that's all anyone's going to think of her or you. Until you start decorating her like a lady, she'll never be one. Women should be covered up and quiet. She is far too colorful. Go for diamonds instead of silly beads and rubies."

"I find diamonds to match those who wear them," Esmeralda said. "Dull and uninteresting."

"I will not stand here and be insulted by peasanty!"

"You weren't," Frollo said. "She's my wife and I'm the Minister of Justice. That hardly makes her peasantry. If you don't want to stand for normal aristocratic banter, close the door and sit down."

The door of the coach was slammed closed. The two turned their attention to the driver as he finished separating the skirt from the wheel. They waited in silence after the coach sped off and disappeared into dust, smoke and distance.

"Who was that?" Esmeralda asked.

"I honestly have no idea," Claude replied. "Must be some new wife or sister; I usually keep track of the aristocracy for when I have to deal with them."

"Then we probably won't see her again, Esmeralda said cheerfully. "Besides, I know exactly what I want now."

………………………

"I thought you said you didn't like diamonds?" Claude said, wondering about the ring Esmeralda had chosen for him. She chose the most surprising gift, a wedding ring for him. Technically he had one, a plain golden band that was so thing it disappeared from sight even when standing next to him. The only way to notice the ring was in intimate situations or if he felt like putting his fist in your face, in which case you probably wouldn't remember it. Esmeralda had gone through five shops before decided on this one, and it was quite possibly because she liked the vendor, rather than his wares. Finally, she chose a large band of alternation oval diamonds and amethysts.

"I like the way these sparkle," she said. "And how the different stones compliment each other."

Claude didn't know if he should take that as a veiled comment or just a rather strange one about the intricacies of appearances, so he took it as the latter. If he wanted a riddle, he'd ask for one and if she wanted to tell him something, she was perfectly capable of saying things blatantly.

When he looked back at her, though, he suddenly realized why the strange woman flaunted her ability to squawk like a chicken. Esmeralda's ubiquitous giant hoop of gold glowed in the afternoon light while nestled amongst her hair. She was nothing but a common street gypsy in a flashy disguise.

"Why do gypsies wear earrings like that one?" he asked. He'd never bothered to learn anything about anyone's culture but his own unless it gave him some insight into the law. Gyspies on occasion paid bail with such jewelry, but so had desperate merchants or aristocrats and gypsies had paid him with everything from coins to trying to hand over daughters—and once a son due to a short-lived rumor.

"Its how we keep our money," she said. "We're always moving and… well, you confiscate money a lot, so we keep them as jewelry so we always have it."

An idea came to him. Claude gently reached out. Esmeralda smiled, thinking he was reaching for her face, but it melted away into bafflement as he detached her earring.

"Claude, what are you going?" she asked.

"It's a surprise," he said, pocketing the earring. "You'll love it."


	44. Goodbye seems like Forever

There are, probably, those who, while knowing what events have transpired, yet if were within the setting would either be studying the sky arduously or asking the semi-philosophical question: when is this?

At the moment, that is, then fictionally, Esmeralda was startled to notice that time had gone off and been disobedient. It had run off without her, almost never sitting still.

Though as skilled at one domestic skill as Odysseus had been lucky and at a nautical one, she excelled in others. She and her husband had enjoyed her exquisite sewing skills, enjoying pillows in a way that it took some thorough convincing that, yes, pillows could be enjoyed in such a way. Though enjoying the memory, she was preparing another, less interesting to more or less anyone, but still tolerable task she excelled at.

The text is getting ahead while Esmeralda realized that she was suddenly behind.

To explain, Frollo and Esmeralda had married in late May. They had argued, cooed, slept, cursed, praised, cried, and screamed at and on top of each other throughout the later months. The reception was held in mid-June, and Giselle had been adamant and steadfast in her opinion on her daughter's accidental opportunity to defy most norms of the time throughout all of August. The merchants arrived in late September, eager to partake in the opportunity to be richer off the sale of everything short of imported dirt.

Frollo merely assumed this was the end of the insanity. Harvest festivals were hardly as insanely dangerous and far less bent purely on breaking every single god-given rule of reality as spring ones. Soon the merchants would leave, some gypsies would travel with them and things would be cold, boring, and dull, the way he liked it, given the alternative.

Esmeralda had been thinking the same; Giselle had to give in sometime, and her daughter would warm up eventually. The horse was probably a lost cause though.

However, as she realized her weekly chore of laundry was more Sisyphean one than usual, she suddenly saw the pile of clothes as a threatening omen.

"I don't understand this at all!" she complained to Djali, who was hoping to sneak a sock, as the alleyway had been relatively empty of edibles today. "I've been with her since I knew she was a her and it never works! She's always the week before me, just like—Oh my Lord!"

Djali neglected his sudden opportunity as Esmeralda began to shriek. She grabbed the goat and shook her in a paniced frenzy. "What am I going to do?" she yelled, as if actually expecting an answer.

With only one option, though it failed recently, Djali licked Esmeralda's face.

"I can't tell him!" she cried. "He'll hate me! I can't do that to him! I—" and suddenly she realized that there was one person, one person whom no one ever thought of until too late or just before, who was used to people frantic and lacking any possibility of acting or speaking reasonably, one person who, despite some strange complaints, could keep a secret and help her at the same time.

Dropping djali, Esmeralda ran off.

A few seconds later, she ran back to retrieve the laundry. It was neglected all that week, poor thing.

………….

There is a procedure of protocol when the nobility deigns to speak of matters they find important—the utmost priority fro them being making other people miserable and all other matters decidedly less important, a system which has lasted for centuries. Said protocol involves messengers, beating around several bushes, and long and drawn-out greetings merely to show the person who knew that you could cut their head off that you could cut their head off.

As it turned out, the strange and offensive woman form the carriage was on an errand—actually, a mission, but she certainly didn't see it that way at all. As it also turned out, she preferred to inconvenience everyone else because it would be an inconvenience to her to have to deal with someone so paltry as a messenger. As yet another thing turned out, she had been tired and worn ragged being handled so roughly by her carriage for so long through land that was so full of and being so close to peasantry. Now, after recovering in appropriate luxury, she was much more prepared to discuss important matters—annoying everyone, herself and others and herself because others were annoyed with her and she felt they had no right to be.

The moment Claude Frollo met with the woman is his house, he wished the plague would return. First she demanded Phoebus introduce her. Then she demanded Claude Frollo's cook summon him (in general, not to the servant, that would be condescending to herself of course).

Afterwards, Claude and Phoebus both had to suffer through her immediate corrections she demanded from Phoebus every time he made a mistake on introducing. Then, Claude Frollo was had to suffer through actually dealing with the woman herself, still having no idea why she was here, despite her having been in his house for two hours already.

"The disgraceful things I have to do just to speak with a preposterously insolent person of your disgusting position," the woman said to no one in particular, like a pet bird that told snide remarks to its mirror.

"Yes, I was there," Claude mused along with her.

"First I hear of you taking an apprentice, then I find you attempting to decorate a gypsy to look like a someone worthwhile—both in a highly unprofessional manner that even someone of your position should know better than," she rattled off, inspecting the main room of the house in order to give everything a properly disgusted sneer at it all.

Claude began to suspect the woman merely barged into people's houses and rattled off insults before asking to be bribed to go away.

"Although you're—for some reason—free to do one, I must say that if you don't fix the first you won't be able to bungle it anymore."

"I'm—not quite sure what you mean," Claude admitted.

"You are getting rid of her," the woman said, her voice made of more ice than before. "I don't care if you get a real one, but you are getting rid of her. Where would you possibly get such ideas of mixing classes?"

Where indeed? Blame the church? Say it was his captain's idea the first day on the job and he stupidly agreed? Of course the woman knew the importance of never backing down just to prove others as imbeciles, but that didn't mean it was a good idea to tell her.

To Claude, knowing your social status was important to get things done. Higher ups had more pressing duties and arguing over a man's haircut or choice in clothes just impeded business that involved someone dying were stupid, but it was a perfectly fine time to start such an argument at the butcher shop (although the situation often changed to one where someone might end up dying). The higher ups had more important jobs to do and if you were cunning enough, like Gaetane had been, you managed to move up out of your class and if you were stupid, you appropriately moved down.

To this… woman… class defined whether or not you should exist in the first place and if you should, exactly how honored you were at cleaning her chamberpot.

"Do I… know who you are?" Claude asked. There had to be a reason why she had chosen him to scream at. Certainly she had enough people to scream at in her own house and if she didn't, she could hire more.

"I am Marquessa Alvery De Vere," she exclaimed.

"You're… that… girl…?" Claude asked, suddenly realizing whom he had been talking to.

"I do hope you've learned how to walk upright without grabbing at the nearest female—although that would explain how you wound up with a gypsy and it would make her very appropriate for your… habits. I do hope you at least appreciate women these days."

"Yes, I… understand now," he said. Admittedly her bosom was adequate enough for a small heifer, if one could find it under the decorations that made her look like a flamboyant colorblind peacock trying to blind someone across a dark street, but Frollo missed Esmeralda's ability to be ignored and even how annoying she was when she sat in his lap and asked what he was reading about.

"Good, now I will finally be able to get you out of my sight; I wish you'd never been so detestable idiotic so I'd never have to suffer seeing you."

"Yes, it seems to be mutual," he muttered after she'd left. He could hear Phoebus suffering from her presence, but he couldn't move himself to comfort the poor captain.

All his plans, all his work, his poor little dog had been stolen again and this time there was no way to get it back or to even avenge her loss. In fact, he didn't know how Quasimodo would forgive him. Unlike before, he wished there was a way to be forgiven and yet his life was nowhere within the equation.

He barely knew why he'd be so bothered by his son's reactions, but he had no idea why he was bothered. He knew he hated wasting time and effort, and he'd miss being able to relax at home and only spent time in the courts and leave those who needed to be kicked in the face to her. In fact, he missed Phoebus following orders, but there was still something more, something that hurt at her loss than he didn't understand.

What more could happen today?

Because fate knows what you're thinking, and will never see the joke as getting old, he was sequentially answered and he began to wonder why ne never locked his door that day.

"That is the worst person I have ever met," Phoebus complained as he slammed the door.

"Thank you for the compliment," Frollo replied. "Exactly why are you here?"

"Because I don't want to go back to work until she's miles away and she makes you downright pleasant by comparison."

"I have been mocked enough today," Frollo said. "There is only one reason I'm going to let you. But if start making insane demands I'm throwing you in the dungeons and forgetting I ever knew you."

"What exactly happened, sir?" When Frollo gave him slack, something bad was happening. The most Frollo let him do anything, the more he worried about his neck staying intact.

"She found out about Gaetane," Frollo said distractedly. He needed to stop all this from happening. He couldn't give her up, but he didn't know how to go around the woman's rules without going back on a promise and digging himself into more trouble.

"Isn't a little late for that?" Phoebus asked. "The archdeacon even allowed her and everything—"

"What do you mean by 'and everything?" Frollo exclaimed. Before Phoebus could waffle though admitting he had no idea what he was talking about, Frollo continued to be angry, which meant there was a chance that things could get back to normal. "He let her be female, he didn't improve anything for her. She's still just a peasant, which makes her inconvenient. I can't keep her unless she somehow marries into a higher class, and if she does who in the world would lat her stay here? If I get rid of her, I lose any chance of keeping the gypsies in line, Esmeralda won't let me hear the end of how much she has to work and I have to work with you again."

"You have my sincere condolences, sir," Phoebus said. "But… couldn't you just give her your job… I mean, the one you had before you became minister?"

"She's not really someone I'd leave alone in a courtroom," Frollo said.

"Very understandable, sir."

"I might be able to keep her close enough to listen to me and do what I say and still keep everyone as sane as possible, but what moron would be stupid enough to marry her? That's something you wouldn't be stupid enough to do."

"Thank you for the compliment,"

"Go back to work; and if you see another important carriage, tell me so I can 'accidentally' let someone escape from the dungeons and have them murdered. I'm sure things will be a lot simpler that way."

……………

It was early in the evening, before the bells were rung and while the sky was still pink that Gaetan and Esmeralda returned home, the latter dragging herself inside with the aid of the former.

Once inside, Esmeralda managed to push herself off of the other girl and lean against a wall, a great feat for her. As her husband contemplated his wife's new distress and ill condition, Gaetan merely regarded Esmeralda the same way one regards the pigeon that shat on your shoulder and then continues to follow you and play innocent while begging for food.

Esmeralda threw one hand over her mouth as a wave of nausea and vertigo hit her while as she struggled with her current dizziness.

"Esmeralda, are you—" Claude started, reaching out to hold her steady.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped, nearly falling off the wall. "I'm going to bed. You're not invited."

"I own that bed," Claude muttered as she slowly made her way to the bedroom.

Once Esmeralda closed the door, Claude felt he had the dangerous and maddening duties to talk to Gaetan.

"What happened to her?" he asked.

"She… She's very not pregnant," Gaetan tried, then realized subtlety about females was still not something he'd grasp. "She found out she was pregnant, and she stopped being pregnant."

"I see," he answered flatly. "I appreciate it, and everything else you have done in this service, but… but it's terminated."

"Sir, no!" she yelled. She grabbed his robes in terror. "Master, please! Whatever I've done—"

"Stop it!" he yelled, grabbing her wrists, threatening to break them if she did not release his clothes. "Just because you did nothing to deserve it does not mean it won't happen. I taught you better than to think like that, now have some dignity!"

His robe fell away from her hands and she hung her head. "How did I fail you? I can make it right if you tell me, please, master!"

"You were found out, that was all. The archdeacon can't save you from this, you were too low-born. And apparently not as smart as I believed; all I did to protect you from the gypsies and their ways and this is what you do. After everything I gave you, after everything they did, you still think won't come to make you suffer for no reasons but those of the devil? You don't hope like that! I certainly didn't teach you that! I know this position won't last! I know I won't last! I know Esmeralda will leave me within the year! How could you have let those heathens trick you?"

"So my mother was right." She said. "This is a cursed place for me. How could someone like you let this happen if you knew it was evil?"

"No. No you were meant to be here. You were blessed," he said. He'd never hated his job more than now. There was always hatred for him. He'd taken money, killed family members, revealed secrets, an destroyed marriages and friendships. He'd always walked away from all of them but he could not walk away from this; he could not leave her without faith. "God created man in his own image. We were each meant to prove we can forge our own power, no matter how small, no matter how brief, otherwise we were never worth anything to our creator. Go to the gypsies. I would rather send you out to a street you will think your way out of than have you suffer in a marriage you won't."

"There wouldn't be one for me. I know," she said, and disappeared with dignity. The door closed quietly and Claude was left with the disaster he couldn't make anyone else face.


	45. For Now, For Always

The only person more frightening to anger than Frollo was his cook. That said, when he called her out to the alley and gave her orders, much of the city thought a war had broken out. The argument lasted only a few minutes, but the screaming frightened children for days and the blasphemy became legendary for years, though the source was soon lost.

Though epic to everyone else, the two went one their as-merry-as-they-get ways as if nothing had happened, nor was there a large crowd of townspeople waiting for one of them to draw blood.

Perhaps it was because there was no excitement to it, despite the verbal build up, perhaps it was to avoid such an attack themselves, or perhaps the city had come toe the same conclusion Jacques had a long time ago that Frollo and anyone around him didn't make any sense in reasoning and wouldn't begin to any time soon.

Whatever the reason no one tried to find the reasons for the fight, Claude had miraculously avoided the torment of scandal, as well as having accidentally created a distraction for Gaetan walking through the city like a man about to be hanged.

….

Like many great battles—though most of them English—no one really knew the reason for them. Not one person awed or terrified by the screaming between Frollo and his cook knew the reason and that was because they had only started screaming after he'd asked her to do something. His cook, whose name even he forgot, was not easily swayed from her view of things. She had her own ideas about how God worked, which the unfortunate archdeacon met with. She had certain ideas of what a woman in the house should do and not do, which was why Esmeralda feared the kitchen and Gaetan pretended to be deaf. Lastly, and most stubbornly, she believed Frollo was too distracted with work, or, recently, from work for his house to operate properly at all.

The cook thought Esmeralda's illness was an opportunity for the master of the house to realize how understaffed he was and to make a contingency plan. Frollo felt the reason why he'd paid for her to stay all these years, even during the long times he stayed in the Palace of Justice because there was too much work to be done to let himself go home, she was his contingency plan and she had better start acting like it

In the end, she got to keep her job, which now included tending helping Claude take care of a sick Esmeralda.

Claude had expected Esmeralda had a merely bout of whatever women call whatever monthly pains they get. He had no idea how other married men dealt with their wives when in such pains and never felt any obligation to ask, even now. Perhaps relating the story could be used in lieu of one of the more physical punishments in the torture chambers eventually…

The cook, angry at her new duties, decided to share some of her enlightenment with her employer. She knew exactly what had happened to Esmeralda, and happily explained every detail before shoving everything he'd need—save for instructions—into his hands.

…

While the cook sulked at how quietly and acceptingly Claude had taken the news of Esmeralda's abortion, Esmeralda herself didn't know how to react.

Frightened, she sat up immediately upon hearing the bedroom door open. She held the blanket over her as much as she could. Sickness had driven the beauty away. There was no more sensuality in her long limbs, she felt shame in her bare breasts, and she wished she could hide her face.

"I should go," she said. "If you give me a few minutes I'll—"

"And where would you go?" Claude asked, setting several things down on the nightstand next to her.

"I…I'd find somewhere," she pleaded.

"And exactly who would take care of you?" he asked before taking a rag and wiping sweat, mucus, and drool off her face. Despite the gesture, she was even more embarrassed.

"But I have to go," she said. "I'll ruin the bed."

"I'll buy a new one if you do," he said calmly, handing her a pile of towels.

"You know?" she asked, as she arranged the towels around her legs as discreetly as she could. His calmness wasn't making her any less embarrassed about being seen.

"Someone filled me in on some information," he said, handing her a linen blanket to cover herself as he took the good velvet ones off the bed.

"That damned brat!" Esmeralda spat, through herself into a coughing fit.

"My cook told me," he said, sitting down. He began rubbing her back and placing another blanket over her. "Gaetan's gone."

"Gone?"

"Some harridan demanded any assistant I have should be from higher status. I could grant her a job, but not marriage."

Esmeralda tried to think past her unease. If the kid was gone, she could have left with saying any kind of slander she wanted, even if it wasn't true. Gaetan had hated her since she married Claude and Esmeralda's view on men probably made their relationship irreparable. She realized it wasn't for her that Gaetan kept silent about Esmeralda's sudden illness. Gaetan appreciated what Frollo had given her and she kept quiet out of respect for him, not her.

"She meant a lot to you, didn't she?"

"I don't want any children and that includes her," he said standing up with a strange need to organize what he'd set on the nightstand—which was only bowls and a pitch or water.

"I meant to your job," Esmeralda said, wincing at the pain in her stomach and abdomen.

"Yes. She was very important." He said.

Esmeralda heard something catch in his throat and immediately turned to look at his face. He was calmer than she'd ever seen him, and that alone scared her. There was no anticipation, no scheme lying in wait, peeking out in a glow in his eyes as it tried to hide. There was no laconic wit even. There was nothing there anymore, save a slight fear. Before, his fear was stirred by hope. If the hope had not been there, he would not seek what he wanted. Hope was what made his fear so delicious before in their passion, turning his fear into a toy, rather than the danger he'd turned it into the last few weeks. No, the hope seemed gone, not even an ember of its former fire. "What's wrong?" she asked, forgetting her own torment for a moment. A slight panic began to creep up her spine. "Are you ill?"

"No," he replied. "I just… would you like e to stay?"

"If it doesn't bother you."

He bent down and kissed her sweating brow and went to his own side of the bed. His calmness had by now turned into solemnity. He didn't face Esmeralda once as he slowly undressed, his actions still fluidly elegant despite his mood.

Esmeralda just sat there, wondering what was happening. Her head was swimming and she felt dizzy. All she agreed to was company… right?

He sat on the bed, as close to her as he could get, one he was down to his braies and shirte. He leaned over, gently stroking his fingers through her hair, tearing apart a few knots as his other hand gently held her chin. He never once met her eyes as he stared at her face, spending several minutes in his dreary pose.

As much as she appreciated the delicate gesture, almost feeling worshipped as a cat does on a lap, her condition would not let her enjoy it long. "I feel sick," she mumbled through a painful groan. She slipped from Claude's grasp and landed on his shoulder, barely propped up.

Esmeralda moved to look up at Claude's face, but he set her down on the pillows. He turned away from her and pulled off his shirte. He heard Esmeralda gasp behind him and he couldn't help suddenly go rigid. He'd never expected her to make any noise about this until she was well. He felt her soft fingertips tracing lines on his back, forgotten marks from whippings as a disobedient or ineffective soldier. He wished he could have experienced such delicate touch to such a vulnerable and sensitive area under different circumstances, but felt comfort that he at least knew the sensation once.

Eventually her hand fell away from lethargy. Claude untied his braies and gently set them aside. He settled himself against the pillows and pulled the linen blankets over them both as Esmeralda curled up close to him.

Within less than a minute he could hear a tiny snore from her as he lay awake. There were no tears this time. He'd been prepared for this moment. He made it the way it was. There were no crushing remarks, there was no denial, and most of all, there was no confusion.

He wondered if he was wrong in doing this. Was it wrong to give her what she wanted in rewards to loyalty, knowing he'd never know such trust or devotion or even occupy her thoughts so dearly ever again?

…

Clopin was working on three new puppets he'd recently gotten the idea for. It wasn't every day that there was a new life-threatening problem almost everyday, so he might as well make a tribute to the rest of those responsible.

He knew exactly what he wanted, down to how to give a puppet Gaetan's insane hair, the exact shape to of Phoebus's goofy smile, how to replicate Esmeralda's hat the looked like a birdhouse.

But, as most often times of inspiration end, this one was ended as subtly and as quickly as dropping a cathedral one someone. Giselle tore into the tent, screaming incoherently with Prince in her arms. Oddly, the baby was quiet. Perhaps as long as there was another person turning people deaf, he felt he wasn't needed.

"You have to stop her!" Giselle screamed. "She's frightening everyone! It's probably a curse!"

Clopin set his puppets down and left the tent with little concern. It wasn't that he didn't trust his wife; it was that given what had happened the last few months, nothing short of a dragon could disturb him. Casually, he strolled out of the tent.

The court was empty, save for the occasional people skirting about like frightened mice in alleyways or far corners.

Clopin sighed, finding out why. On the edge of the gallows, with an expression that could frighten most stone gargoyles on Notre Dame, was Gaetan. Things weren't going to get easy very soon. The closer he got to her, the worse her glowering scowl looked; her expression was worse than any even seen Frollo wear.

"So… bad day?" he asked as he sat next to her.

"I hate you," she said caustically.

"Is there a reason why, or are you taking over for his bad mood?"

"He fired me. He had to because I'm the daughter of a whore and a gypsy, not an illegitimate child of a soldier."

Clopin wondered what to say. Pointing out that he couldn't have helped what he did was a lie. Even if he didn't know about her job, he didn't have to have Giselle keep a baby she couldn't feed. He'd never have to marry her after that. Truth be told, Giselle would still have been happy.

Nor could he just tell her to accept it and join the gypsy community. She'd never be accepted. The French, backwards, insane, and cruel as they were, could accept a woman warrior on competence and piety and his people couldn't. He'd never felt ashamed for his culture until now and he honestly wondered why.

"What are you going to do?" he finally asked.

"I've got some money saved up. I can sell the rest of what I got from him. I can probably afford a good nunnery."

"That's it? Getting up to a bell every day and praying for the rest of it?" Clopin asked. "You're just going to give up?"

"What else can I do?" she screamed, standing up. "You're not even a Christian!"

She tried to stomp off, but he grabbed her arm after a few steps.

"What?" she screamed. Lacking the subtlety to her voice that Frollo had, even when he was at his angriest.

"You don't think I can help you, do you?"

"No," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"Then why'd you come down here?"

"I wanted to keep an eye on mama where she wouldn't worry."

"Well… it didn't really work. Look, I still like you… if you keep the volume down. Come on, you're smart; you can figure this out. Just stay down here while you think things over."

"Why?" she asked. "Everyone hates me here."

"I don't. I can understand you're not a fan of me, but you could at least be nice enough to your family by letting me be your dad for a little while."

"What if I don't want you to be my father?"

"Why not try it for a while before you decide?"

"I'm still mad," she said, crossing her arms.

"That's fine," Clopin said, sitting back down and yanking her with him. "Have a seat.

"Is a nunnery your only option?"

"Unless you can find someone willing to marry me," Gaetan said.

"True. As many people as there are that like the idea of women who can but their face off, that's not really considered a good trait in a wife. …Then again, do you have to be a good wife?"

"I don't understand," she said, calm for once. "Why would anyone want a bad wife?"

"You've been living with those two crazies; you should know at least one answer."

"I don't have those."

"That wasn't exactly what I was talking about," Clopin said. "Those two would just have made silly faces at each other for years if they didn't need everyone to shut up. I'm pretty sure you being around would get a lot of people to shut up."

"Would it be worth it?" she asked.

Clopin sighed. "I can't say."

"I don't know how to go about it, though."

"I'll see if I can help," Clopin said, scooting closer. "Just… watch the teeth and the sword, please."

…

For the first time, since she was given the luxury of the velvet sheets and blankets of Claude's bed, Esmeralda awoke at dawn with her husband.

While Esmeralda was jubilant of the new day—no longer sick or suffering from painful cramps and finally given the intimacy he had always been too shy to contemplate without fear, Claude, however was not in the mood to greet the new day, let alone his wife. He didn't even face her as he tried to sneak away, carefully pulling his arm away as she pretended to still sleep.

Just as he was about to slip away, Esmeralda grabbed his thin wrist and snuggled against his hand, hoping to hint that he should settled back down in bed. It was Sunday after all.

"Esmeralda, do not tease me, please," he said. His depression was as obvious and ominous as a corpse hanging from a gibbet. "Give me that kindness at least."

"I don't understand," Esmeralda admitted. "No one's ever helped me when I was sick before, never mind sleep with me like I was beautiful. I looked awful and I smelled and I even threw up on you, but you brushed my hair and held me. No one's ever been that nice to me. …Do you resent it?"

"No, he said, settling back into bed."

"Were you upset about something?" Esmeralda asked.

"No."


	46. Supercalifragilistic

It wasn't Saturday. It wasn't Sunday. The only tricky part was counting on Esmeralda to be dependable, and she only did that if you didn't depend on her. Gaetan realized how poor Frollo's security was now. Even she and Frollo were afraid of the cook, but she had the kitchen all to herself and it was easy to quietly walk past it and the cook, for all her ferocity, was none the wiser. If Phoebus managed this, the cook was hardly much of a security measure. Other than the cook, all that protected the house was a goat that would let anyone willing to abandon trash that resembled food even slightly past and a gypsy woman who was easily distracted by something shiny. Gaetan doubted her own worth as anything that could prevent strangers form wandering in. She couldn't be that feared, even with the death threats and attempts she'd received, could she?

Surprisingly, Esmeralda opened the door. Gaetan hadn't expected her to bother with so many chores.

"What's he done now?" Esmeralda asked, the second she realized who was at the door.

"Actually, I just came to get my things," Gaetan said

"So what are you going to do?" Esmeralda asked.

"I don't know. Momma wants me to get married, but I don't want to. Unless I marry a man of high rank, I won't be able to do anything I can't do now."

Esmeralda crossed her arms and glared at the kid.

"If I wanted to do that, I'd just take over momma's old job."

Esmeralda sighed, she had been defeated by someone almost half her age on the topic of romance. "What about that doctor?"

With current technology far behind the bicycle and Gaetan not knowing much about fish, her only option was to make a face and hope Esmeralda understood.

"What about one of the soldiers?"

"If I'm hired again, the difference in rank would be awkward," Gaetan said. "Besides, they'll all be busy now that Frollo has to do the work I used to… except for the work you have to do that I used to do."

"Busy?" Esmeralda asked. She'd finally gotten him to calm down and stop working long enough to have a pleasant sleep when it wasn't Saturday. "How busy?"

"You know how busy he was before I was hired? Busier than that, probably."

"You're coming with me!" Esmeralda stated, grabbing Gaetan's wrist and marching down the stairs.

"What for? I don't work for him anymore."

"We'll see about that. You're getting married whether you like it or not."

Gaetan smirked. Either things were going according to plan or Clopin was going to pay for bad advice.

For once Phoebus was not told the details of how things were changing. All he knew was that Frollo was taking charge of patrols and, given his attitude, presumably had sat on a nail.

By this time Phoebus had developed a certain strategy for dealing with the minister: shut up, do what he was told or at least fake doing so in a convincing manner, question nothing no matter how odd or uncomfortable things were, and do is best to stay out of sight when he needed someone to blame or speak of his married life. It did not make his job bearable, but he found that it was better than getting involved in anything beyond 'go here' or 'get him.'

His strategy wasn't working at all today. Frollo's irate gloom spread like some sort of emotional gangrene, causing fear and misery in its wake. Even Phoebus, who could find a way to keep up hope in the wake of Judgment Day by telling himself it meant he got the day off was feeling cynical and depressed over everything.

Frollo kept his captain close and worked long into the end of the day, finally giving up when he admitted it was too dark to patrol unless there was an emergency, although in truth it was because Esmeralda had come to tell him to come home.

Frollo's sour mood had affected him to the point that Phoebus, a man who could be corrected about math by his horse, knew things weren't over. There was another shoe, just waiting to drop on his head.

Lo and behold: he was finally right about things; Clopin bolted out of an alley as he was passing it, angering his horse and impressing Pheobus slightly less than if he'd found a rock in his boot.

"Could I ask a favor?"

"Oh, no," Phoebus exclaimed. "I am not, in any way, falling for that again."

"But you saw how complicated things are!" Clopin said, waving his hand for emphasis in a way that would look over the top if it were someone else.

"Frankly I'm tired of things being complicated. I left the war because that confused me. You guys can keep this one to yourselves."

"I was simple before you got here!" Clopin complained. "How fun was that?"

"Fine," Phoebus sad through gritted teeth. Either his morals or his conscience was going to be severely bruised before the day was over. "What trouble did everyone get themselves into?"

"Frollo fired Gaetan!"

"So he's gone completely insane, what do you want me to do about it?"

"He can't take her back unless she gets married to someone who can spell their own name and you're the only one I know who can do that."

"No, I'm not," Phoebus retorted. "I never learned." In an other circumstances, he'd have felt stupid, but this one time, he was avoiding unnecessary lunacy trust upon him.

"Stabbing people legally also works," Clopin explained. "Besides, I though you might have a dying friend or know someone who'll be leaving because they're smarter than everyone else."

"If I knew someone smarter than all of us, I'd ask them how not to come up with bright ideas."

Achilles stamped his foot.

"You don't count, you can't talk."

"Can't you ask him if there's a loophole?" Clopin pleaded. "Gaetan's money was the only way I could afford to feed my family."

"Look, there is no one insane enough to marry that girl. She's your problem now."

"But if she gets married, she's his problem. And Esmeralda and Frollo can be her problem; she seemed to handle them well."

"She hates Esmeralda," Phoebus said, wishing Clopin would just go away.

"I know, but not enough to want to kill anyone over it."

Phoebus sighed. As crazy as Clopin was and as little as he trusted him, he had a point. Frollo could harness the power of spite into a precise and focused determination to kill his prey a wild bear would want avoid.

"Look, I'd help you, but there's no one out there who wants to give things up his whole life just to keep Frollo from killing murderers and making people miserable."

"Just find someone who doesn't care anyway and hasn't gotten themselves in trouble yet," Clopin said cheerfully. "That and someone who'd really want Frollo to owe them as long as it fixes everything."

"Fine," Phoebus said. "But I'm not promising anything, I'm not fighting Frollo, and after this I'm not involved in any more disasters related to this, understand."

"Easily," Clopin said, holding up his hand in promise.

As the gypsy turned to leave, Phoebus turned to his horse. "Okay, wise guy, what's your bright idea about all of this?"

Achilles strode forward and plucked Clopin's hat off the man's head to chew on.

"Hey!" Clopin complained.

"I need a drink, Phoebus muttered.

Gaetan was convinced Esmeralda's cleverness stopped at thinking about nude men; if they weren't involved, Esmeralda probably didn't even think it could be done. Thus Gaetan had no faith in Esmeralda's involvement in getting married. Clopin had just told her 'You know, you might enjoy it' and Gaetan just figured she'd ask her mother for tips, Phoebus for alcohol, and Frollo her help circumventing the whole deal.

Esmeralda hadn't mentioned naked men or what she did with them all day. Instead, she insisted on buying and measuring cloth for a dress and simple headdress, complaining about Gaetan's figure, complexion, and other things she didn't know the meaning of and didn't wish to. At least she already had a plan about Geatan's hair, and a reasonable one at that.

Despite trusting Esmeraldas's knowledge on dresses and hats, Gaetan wondered why the gypsy never once addressed actual marriage or how to have the other participant volunteer. All she said on the matter was 'Give these to your mother' and 'I'm sure your father knows what he's doing.'

Not having anything else to do, and hoping it would earn her some food, Gaetan headed to her parents' tent in the court. As she neared, she could hear Clopin's loud and wild words as he spoke to Giselle. He was talking about her getting married, guaranteeing some stranger would come along soon. Apparently she had two people helping her, neither of which had an actual clue.

When she heard Phoebus's name, however, she realized just what was going on. Sighing, she entered the tent to pretend she had been deaf and dumber than a potato up until now. She gave her mother the materials Esmeralda had bought her and told her what Esmeralda wanted, realizing that her wants weren't involved in any of this whatsoever—as usual.

She'd been through that situation enough. Even if it meant achieving her dream permanently, she couldn't force someone else into that situation. Especially poor Phoebus…. Of all the people she'd met, they all wanted to trick their way into getting what they wanted. Only one person besides him had lied, cheated, exaggerated, seduced, tricked, or forced others to get what they wanted. Perhaps others deserved such a thing as the divine wreaking retribution, but he had not earned such punishment.

While her mother was distracted by her father boasting about how great it would be to trick the captain of the guard in order to afford a good many frivolous things, Gaetan slipped out, angry at them all, and at herself for letting them tick her into becoming as bad as them.

Gaetan his in the shadows near one of the entrances to The Court. Her mother had yet to make her a dress and without authority se one had, she could easily cost her family more than an annoying, useless, girl who was just about to ruin their lives further.

She took to the streets in the very dark. Phoebus was alone, roaming the streets aimlessly with Achilles.

Gaetan stepped in front of the horse, frightening it immediately and sending it on its back hooves, flailing its front hooves in the air wildly.

"Whoah! Calm down!" Pheobus ordered. "She doesn't have a broom."

"Is anyone else around…Sir?

"No, it's just me, kid," Phoebus said. "What in the world do you want, now? Did one of your folks try to kill someone again?"

"No…not that I know of, sir."

"Then what's going on?"

"We shouldn't be married just because my father and Esmeralda tricked you."

Phoebus sighed. "I'd say you spoiled the surprise, but you saved me the speech of telling you all this and keeping you from hurting anyone. I guess you're too smart for that.

"Look, kid, I know you mean well, but this would help everybody, including you. You'll get your job back, Frollo won't have to work as much, Esmeralda will leave both of us alone, your parents and brother will get money—"

"What about you?"

"I'll be fine. I prefer to see Frollo happy, and outside of earshot," Phoebus said. "You keep saying marriage isn't about love, so why should ours be?"

"But you could get someone better than me."

"I don't think so."

Achilles shook his head as hard as he could.

"Ignore him," Phoebus said. "The only girl horses in the stable are yours and Frollo's.

"I mean, marriage doesn't mean we have to live in the same place or eat the same dinner at the same time. I just can't go…where your mom used t work—just in case they need checking up on. Not that I—"

"Sir, it doesn't count unless they're married too. You can go there all you want when you're not working."

"I—wait, what?" Phoebus exclaimed. "I thought it was illegal or something if you're married."

"Not unless the church demands your arrest. You just go to confession."

"Well I guess that's settled then, thanks. I'll visit you now and then."

"We can't live together?" Gaetan asked.

"Frollo's not going to allow me to move in and I definitely don't want him knocking on my door every day," Phoebus said. "It'll be fine; my parents didn't live together."

"But who'd marry us?" Gaetan asked.

"Your dad said he'd handle that, I think."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I thought you'd know," Pheobus said. "I didn't want to think about it."

Neither of the wedding participants was impressed. Phoebus had had to trek through the sewers, dragging Phillipe with him, who all the while alternated between screaming about being attacked and laughing at Phoebus's predicament. Added to that, Esmeralda had come along, mocking him the whole way inadvertently to Phillipe, and he had been blamed when her goat ate the bouquet.

Gaetan was in no mood for Clopin's quirky surprises either. Her mother had never measured the dress and insisted that this was better than fitting her perfectly. The waist was small, the skirt was too long, and she was blamed when Esmeralda's goat ate her flower garland.

"What?" Clopin asked. "I said I could handle this and I could! Why would I need to tell everyone I can marry people?"

"So you're a priest?"

"No, but I can marry people with the authority granted by the archdeacon so marriages are legitimate," Clopin corrected.

Phoebus and Gaetan sighed.

"Now, as per tradition, the groom gives a dowry to the bride—"

"I'm giving her her job back, that's not enough?"

"I can still become a nun," Gaetan said flatly.

"Clopin…" Esmeralda prompted through gritted teeth.

"Er, right, now the usual vow is to contribute to our society, hand over money to me now and then, and make babies, but how about you two just keep anyone form being killed if they don't need to be and call it a deal?"

"Sounds fair," they both agreed.

"Good, I pronounce you married. Keep out of trouble. I need to talk to Esmeralda."

"Hey, I'm only here to make sure this is legitimate," Esmeralda protested. "And to tell her what to do next."

"But I thought I could go home," Gaetan said as Phoebus used this as an opportunity to sneak away and Giselle gave her daughter a long, appreciative hug, showing she was finally proud of her daughter. So long as she could be an adequate girl, she could be as good a boy as she wanted.

"You are going to the Palace of Justice," Esmeralda said, interupting the moment. "Frollo doesn't' want anyone bugging him when he's not working. He said figuring our the servants and magistrates would be a good challenge for you. I'll send your things."

"And you're going to keep an eye on those two not-in-love birds," Clopi tol Esmeralda, dragon her away.

"Me?" Esmeralda exclaimed. "I have to keep four people form having kids?"

"My daughter breaks noses, wields a word, and I swear to God has a horse that wants to eat me. I don't care if she's married to that lunkhead or knows Quasimodo, Frollo is teaching her to do even worse things and we might as well save time and set Paris on fire ourselves if she takes after her mother. The only kids she's going to have should be that kind!" Clopin pointed to Djali, who was busy fighting Prince for one of his socks.

"You mean my doe?" Esmeralda asked, confused.

"No, I mean your goat."

"We need to have a talk."


End file.
